Secret Keepers
by malarial Marie
Summary: Severus Snape finds he must ask himself- after half a lifetime of self-imposed isolation and apathy, is there anything he can possibly do for a troubled sixteen-year-old girl? And with answer in hand, another question- is there anything he possibly will not do? How could he ever have thought he would manage to avoid such painful things as emotional investments? Dark, A/U
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is the only warning that I will give in regards to the content of this story. It is graphic. It contains mature subject matter, written in a way that I feel I should emphasize the **TRIGGER WARNING** in regards to sexual abuse, self-harm, suicide, drug use… I am hoping that you get the picture, dear reader. While I have done my best to treat these subjects delicately and with the respect they deserve, I am by no means a skilled writer and so if you find the above themes personally disturbing, this is not a story for you.

That being said, I will do my best. Also of note – the style of this chapter does not reflect the style of the next chapter. So it goes.

* * *

**Secret Keepers**

**Chapter #1**

"_No neurotic harbors thoughts of suicide which are not _

_murderous impulses against others redirected upon himself" – Sigmund Freud_

She drew lines on her arms, sliding the serrated knife along her skin, watching in a sort of morbid fascination as the flesh parted willingly and blood began to pool in the shallow gaps she'd created. It felt good in a way nothing else ever had. Not learning, not the praise her teachers gave her, not even the sheer, giddy joy of calling up information she'd absorbed from the books she poured over near-constantly. That was all mere distraction. This, though. This was escape. This banished the dull roar from her ears, stilled the spinning world, soothed her rattled nerves.

Up from her inner elbow to her wrist. Down along the same path. Deeper this time. Fascinated by the ever-darkening blood that slowly escaped the gash to dribble down her arm and splatter against the pure white porcelain, where it met with a thin film of water, became diluted to an almost pink hue, and travelled across the floor like a malignant shadow. So much blood. She turned her attention to her other arm. Up and down, slowly, giving herself time, loosening the constricted sensation in her chest and the sickness in her stomach.

Sixteen. She felt incredibly old. Sixteen was meant to be young, innocent, untouched. Sixteen-year-old girls did not see monsters all around them. Did not shrink away from the fond gaze of boys, did not know what lay behind the looks of admiration. She ought to want to be pretty. To be admired. It should feel good, even if it was vain, but she felt dirty, exploitable, and disgusting when boys looked at her. When they talked to her. And when they got too close.

She ought to be excited- her body was filling out, her hips becoming more pronounced, her breasts growing, changing into a really rather nice female figure. She ought to be admiring the curve of her waist, how delicate it was, how her round breasts pulled and puckered her blouse. But all she saw were fingerprints on her inner thighs and dirt smudged around her nipples.

* * *

The next day, like any other Monday, Hermione slipped into her seat beside Neville Longbottom, flashed him a smile, and readied her work-space for brewing. The classroom was always chilly, even during the final few weeks of school when summer began to emerge, but today that suited Hermione just fine. In fact she found it agreeable. She had no reason to shed her robes or roll up her sleeves.

The students were utterly silent as they filtered into the Potions classroom. Four years of experience had taught them well. One did not venture into Professor Snape's classroom chatting idly with friends or laughing or even smiling. Though she supposed, most of them were straight-faced and glum because they had to endure the next hour with their surly Potions teacher.

She found Potions a difficult class as well, though not for the reasons her fellow students did. For her entire career at Hogwarts, Hermione had done her absolute best to gain the respect of all of her teachers. She wanted them to respect her. She wanted them to look at her and see an intelligent student. Partly because she was ambitious, yes, but also because she knew that if she could accomplish that, if she could be seen as a high achiever, then they would look no further at her. She did it to draw attention to herself, but on her own terms. In a certain way. And she'd succeeded with all of her teachers, with the exception of Professor Trelawney, who was a sham, Professor Binns, who hardly noticed anything anyway, and Professor Snape.

She had tried. Oh, she'd tried so very hard to earn his respect. She would even accept it if it was given grudgingly. But Professor Snape had never once given her praise or anything close to it. In fact her efforts were often met with contempt. Still, she tried. Every Potions class presented her with a new opportunity. And she took every chance she could get, because his eyes always raked over her coldly and his lips always curled into a sneer and it seemed he could see right through her. And that terrified her.

Today he called his students up one at a time and had them collect the essays they'd turned in at the start of term. His pale fingers held onto her paper for a brief and uncomfortable moment. She looked down at him. Something there. His gaze lingered on the parchment, on her hand, and then he looked up at her with a customary sneer. "A new low for you, Miss Granger," he said, releasing the paper.

Blushing, Hermione retreated to her spot. She saw what he meant. Scrawled in vivid red ink in the right corner was her mark- a 62. She stared at the stark red numbers slashed into her crisp parchment paper, fascinated, thrown off-guard, and embarrassed.

* * *

_I've taught them well_, Severus thought, watching his students filter in silently and take their respective seats. He'd never given them assigned seating of any sort, yet they always segregated themselves by House, never mingling, keeping to themselves. He wondered occasionally if it did more harm than good. It certainly didn't foster good inter-house relationships. But then, that was probably a lost cause anyway. He couldn't begin to fathom how any Slytherin could tolerate a typical Gryffindor. Too loud, too full of lofty ideas about justice and bravery and inner strength. And no Gryffindor in their right mind would put up with such ambition, such desire for power.

He scowled deeply when Harry Potter entered with his best friend Ronald Weasley. They were not chatting today- in fact, there seemed to be an air of tension between them. Curious. And oddly, they were missing their other friend, Hermione Granger. The clever one. Apparently.

He looked down at the stack of parchment on his desk. Summer essays. It always gave him a chuckle to assign summer homework- if he had to suffer eight months out of the year, surely his students deserved two months of knowing they had work to do. Their work was almost always monumentally bad. It frustrated him occasionally, though his frustration grew less over the years as he found himself accepting the fact that for most of his students, academic success was not a top priority. As someone academically inclined himself, it had taken Severus quite a long time to come to terms with that.

This year, it seemed, even the students he counted on for putting forth a good effort were failing him. Even- and he could not understand it, and hardly believed it- Hermione Granger seemed to be faltering. He held on to her essay for a moment while she tugged at it, the sleeves of her robes scrunching up slightly. If Severus had been looking anywhere else at the moment, he would not have noticed. But his eyes were on her determined little hands, and so while they both held on to her dismally written essay he caught a glimpse of a bright red line on her inner wrist that disappeared up into her sleeve. He looked up at her and gave a disappointing sneer, then let go of her precious paper.

And that was how it started. So innocuously he hardly noticed. It was only mid-September and he was already beginning to truly feel the effects of being stretched so thin. There were his obligations towards the Order of the Phoenix, which he truly detested- when the other members weren't pointing fingers at him, they were demanding explanations that he simply couldn't give. Not being able to defend himself bothered Severus more than he cared to admit. Actually, it made his blood boil.

When he wasn't dealing with the Order, he was dealing with the Dark Lord. He almost preferred that to Albus Dumbledore, if only because the Dark Lord didn't mislead him. He would be punished if he disappointed. He was just a pawn in the grand scheme of things. He would be rewarded if he did well.

And then there was teaching. He actually enjoyed teaching. He liked seeing young witches and wizards start to comprehend things, even if he spent year after year forcing the same information down their throats. When a student got that spark in their eyes, like a light switching on, he felt as though he'd done something worthwhile. Even if most of them never used their knowledge or went anywhere in the field of potions, at least he'd given them a thorough education.

That didn't mean it was easy. Teaching was near-impossible. Only a maniac would willingly sign up for hours upon hours of droning on, writing on a chalkboard, marking schoolwork until 9:00 at night, working up lesson plans for the week, worrying about that one student who was most definitely going to fail, and doing it all for a rather pathetic salary.

No, Severus didn't need anything else on his plate. It was quite full enough.

But he was, by nature, a curious person. As a child it had made him precocious. _If I do this, what will happen? _He'd done plenty of things to earn his parents' ire, though he was well-aware that he'd never deserved the level of force his father had often employed in disciplining him. He couldn't help himself. Wanting to understand was like wanting to breathe, for him. The moment he found himself asking a question, something seemed to take over and drive him to find an answer, a solution, a logical explanation.

So the fresh, ugly scratch on one of his student's inner wrists caught his eye and made him wonder-

_Why?_

* * *

And so it went. The following Monday Hermione Granger made an extraordinary mess of her potion. Wordlessly Severus cleaned her workspace up for her, too curious to reprimand the girl. And the Monday after that, she turned in an essay about musical charms that, while interesting, was certainly not the subject Severus had expected. He found Filius Flitwick at dinner that night and they switched essays.

"Quite unlike Miss Granger," Filius said. "Shall I mention it to Minerva?"

"'I'm sure it was a harmless mix-up."

Severus kept an eye on Hermione Granger's wrists. She kept them covered at all times, even whilst brewing potions. He occasionally caught glimpses of angry red marks. And when she thought no one was looking, Miss Granger would look down at her hands and tug at her sleeves as though embarrassed. And he felt suddenly concerned as well as curious.

And his curiosity grew.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter #2**

"_Pride and curiosity are the two scourges of our souls. The latter prompts us to poke our noses into everything, and the former forbids us to leave anything unresolved and undecided."- Michel de Montaigne_

The image of raw, angry cuts sliced into delicate white skin clung to Severus Snape's mind as he jimmied open the lock and slipped into the dark entryway, carefully closing the door behind him. Magic would make things so much easier, but truthfully he rather enjoyed the challenge of doing this the hard way, and besides that his less legitimate skills could use sharpening. And he wanted to be sure there would be absolutely no trace of his presence here, because really, he was well-aware of the line he had just crossed in stepping into a student's house.

He ought to have just used Legillimency on her. Just a quick peek into her mind, to see what lurked there. But it was a matter of principle. He kept repeating that sentiment to himself. Principle. While he had no qualms using Legillimency to pry into Harry Potter's mind when he thought the boy might be in danger, this was a quite different matter. This was…. Well, he wasn't entirely sure just what this was. But fuelled by a few rounds of firewhisky and the rather painful insight that he could draw more than a few rudimentary comparisons between his adolescent self and Hermione Granger's actions, he could not simply drop the matter.

So much for logic. So much for Slytherin principles of isolationism, of not making things his problem.

He took the small penlight out of his pocket and covered the little yellow bulb with his sleeve to dim the glow. Tonight it seemed liquor had only served to sharpen his senses, boost his awareness to an almost painful level. Or was that perhaps due to him breaking into a muggle house for no apparent reason?

The normalcy of the house struck him first and made him feel a bit uneasy about his decision to investigate. Maybe he was overreacting, perhaps being a bit too suspicious. Maybe Hermione Granger had gone through a simple bout of self-pity that made her carve up her arms. Teenagers were volatile and stupid. They did things without thinking.

If it had been anyone else, Severus might have believed it was a one-off incident with the only consequence being an embarrassed girl with a few scars that would be difficult to explain. He wanted to believe it, but couldn't. And if there were answers to be found, he knew by experience they would be found in her home.

He stepped into the den, minding where he put his feet. Creaking floorboards and rustling carpets were always a risk one took when breaking and entering, but with enough practice a person could gain some feel for where not to step. Severus Snape had plenty of practice. He'd spent most of his life practicing the art of being silent. He didn't make a sound as he studied the photographs on the wall and the knickknacks scattered across a small oak table. A porcelain vase with fake flowers dominated the coffee table.

_How upper middle class _

He allowed a sneer of disdain, taking in the neutral floral pattern of the sofa and loveseat, the white leather recliner, the rather large television resting on a maple cabinet. It all reminded him of Lily's house. Everything neat and organized and well taken care of. He had only his own house to compare it to. An oven that only worked when he gave it a good kick. A microwave that was quite likely one of the first models ever released. This warm cleanliness was alien to him, and he almost felt bad for walking around with his shoes on.

There was a photo on the table next to the sofa. Hermione Granger and her parents, all beaming, standing on a beach. On vacation.

_Nothing wrong here,_ he thought, and suddenly felt certain that if he poked around enough he would find something useful, something that might explain Miss Granger's less normal behaviour. What did all of this mean, anyway? The nice cream carpet, the family photographs, the sparkling new television? It meant money was not an issue. It meant Mrs. Granger was perhaps a bit of a snob and that Mr. Granger might not be the most assertive husband. He could not imagine Hermione Granger's mother being a weak, mistreated wife who cowered when her husband came home, but that didn't mean it wasn't a possibility.

That brought up a host of imagines Severus found extremely unpleasant. Images of his own home life. How utterly humiliated he would have been if anyone he knew outside of his family had come traipsing into his home. He never did let Lily step foot in Spinner's End. Partly because he was embarrassed, but also because he didn't want her to pity him. Because there had been plenty for people to feel sorry about. Empty cupboards and dirty clothes. The smell of stale alcohol that permeated everything.

He held his penlight between his teeth and crouched in front of the television. The cabinet it sat on was locked. He jimmied the cabinet open with the hair pin he'd stolen from his mother nearly thirty years ago- it clicked in a very satisfying way- and ducked his head to scan the shelves.

Just video tapes. And a very new-looking VCR player. He was briefly distracted by how small it was- the one he remembered being hooked up to his tiny television had been a great big metal thing that had shattered the front window when his father chucked it across the room.

He pulled several videos off of the top shelf and tapped on the wooden backing. It gave a soft, hollow echo. Feeling quite unreal, he pulled everything off the top shelf and gently peeled the false backing away. Just a tiny space with a black plastic bag. He took the bag, careful not to let it rustle, and fished around in it. A stack of photos. A few videos. Probably a pornography collection from Mr. Granger's college years.

It wasn't often he was reminded that despite trying to rise above base instinct, he was still just a man after all. But his eyes were drawn immediately to the perfectly round breasts and smooth inner thighs of the woman in the photo before he even thought to look at her face. Less concerned with her identity, distracted by how enticing that body was. And then her face. Everything all at once was sucked out of him as he stared into painfully familiar large brown eyes.

"Oh," he whispered, the first noise he'd made in twenty minutes. His breath hitched in his throat, which felt suddenly too constricted- the rather acrid taste of alcohol flooded his mouth. He tried to collect himself and flipped to the next photo. Same girl, different pose, a stranger's hands grabbing at her breasts and pushing them together. He tried to breathe and let out a strangled noise he'd never heard himself make before. Into the bag the photos went. He put everything back on the shelf, holding the bag to his chest. It felt suddenly much heavier. His stomach was beginning to turn. His brain tried everything to make him believe the girl in the photograph was not the girl that sat in front of him three times a week. Bright, well-spoken, no hint of anything wrong. Normal.

Severus made a hasty but silent exit, slipping out the door and apparating right into the den of his own house. It no longer smelled like alcohol. He went to the closet and yanked out the old television, his hands shaking as he set it down on the floor and plugged it in. The screen flickered to life and crackled noisily. He found the VCR player as well, struggled for a moment to hook it up to the telly, and pulled one of the tapes out of the bag.

Had to be some mistake. Surely. A mistake. Not Hermione Granger- her mother, maybe. Plausible, wasn't it? Not really, but he had little else to cling to and the way his chest was beginning to ache he knew there was an anxiety attack coming on.

The VCR player whirred and a well-lit room came into focus on the screen. It was the Grangers' living room. It looked exactly the same. Same photos on the walls, same fake flowers in the vase on the coffee table. The recording date flashed in the bottom right corner. August 25th, 1995. He sank back onto his knees and felt his stomach heave unpleasantly. There was no mistaking Miss Granger. She was on her back and stretched out on the carpet like a helpless animal.

"Touch yourself," a voice commanded.

Severus jabbed the pause button and sat there trembling. His mind was being cruel, replaying everything he'd ever said to Hermione Granger, the cutting remarks, the belittling shots he'd taken at every opportunity, not because he disliked her, but because she kept company with Potter. He hurt her feelings knowing it would anger Potter. He'd been cruel to someone who never deserved it. He felt his mistake now like a knife twisting in his side. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the taste of firewhisky on his breath.

He had to physically force himself to hit the play button.

Hermione Granger lifted one hand and rested it on her chest. Her face was strangely blank, expressionless.

"Do it!"

She obeyed wordlessly, emotionless, burying her hand between her legs. He hit the forward button, watched the screen blur into movement, then hit play. The camera wiggled- somebody was holding it- and focused in on her face. She was crying now. There was a man on top of her. A hand came down and smacked her, jerking her head to the side, grabbing her throat and choking her, the man pinning her down and pounding himself into her with brutal force.

Severus hit the pause button, stumbled to his feet, and went into the bathroom. "God," he said, then leaned over and vomited into the toilet. First shock. A man had hurt Hermione Granger. Had slapped her and choked her and raped her… and had taped the whole thing. Then anger. Somebody had done this to his student. A good, decent, kind girl with a bright future. Blistering anger surged through him like a current, down his spine to his toes and through to his fingertips. He wiped his mouth clean, went back to the living room, and took out the tape. He returned it to its bag and shoved that into his closet, muttering a quick sealing charm, then a disillusionment spell. He slammed the closet door shut and kicked the VCR player across the room.

"Fucking hell," he said, grabbing his foot. Bloody indestructible thing. Fucking muggles. Fucking everything.

He went into his bathroom again and rooted around in the medicine cabinet, tossing empty prescription bottles across the floor, wondering what on earth he was going to do, aware that he was drunk and on the edge of having a fit.

_Don't be a fool. Go to the headmaster. This is not your problem._

Well, what could he do then? Hand over a bag of very damning evidence and say he had no idea where it came from? And then what? Mr. John Granger would be tried in a court of law, and his daughter would have to relive all of that? He would get twenty years, could be out in seven.

No. He'd made it his problem the moment he decided to pry. There was only one thing to do. He would have to speak to Miss Granger.

Finally his fingers wrapped around a bottle that wasn't empty. It took a few shaky seconds to get the lid off and dump two small pills into his sweaty palm. He downed them, turned on the faucet, and splashed water into his mouth and on his face. Checked himself in the mirror- he needed a shower quite badly- then pocketed the bottle of pills and switched off the light. Tomorrow was Saturday. Should he give Miss Granger the weekend? Perhaps it would be better just to get it over with. She could do a lot of damage to herself in two days.

Suddenly he was consumed with worry. He would have to keep an eye on her. A very close eye. If she was already harming herself… well, that might very well be a prelude to something much worse, something irreversible.

He shuddered and locked his front door, placed protective wards around his house, and apparated back to Hogsmeade. The helpless sensation in his gut would drive him mad. How he hated feeling helpless. But he was a teacher, not a therapist. He didn't understand people at all. What good could he possibly do?

The pills were starting to kick in, taking the edge off of his anger and dialing his emotions down to a tolerable level. He'd faithfully picked up his monthly Valium prescription for the past seventeen years, sometimes hoarding the pills, sometimes abusing them with reckless abandon. He even threw a couple bottles out once, after a night he couldn't remember and a morning spent unable to move his legs. But he needed them. For when firewhisky wouldn't cut it, he needed them.

His feelings were neatly under control when he got back to his living quarters. He threw himself down on his bed, not bothering to take off his clothes, and stared up at his ceiling. The firelight from his bedside lantern flickered across the stone. It was quite pretty to watch. Possibly he'd been living in the dungeons for too long. He found aesthetic appeal in his surroundings, where others might see nothing but a hole in the ground. It was cold in the winter, true, but he had a fireplace in his bedroom and his den. The faucet had to run for a good three minutes before he had hot water, but he'd gotten so used to turning it on well before showering that it had just become another fact of life. Turn on shower, brush teeth, shave, get in. Not difficult.

What Severus was most fond of about his home was the quiet. His living quarters were silent. Day and night, all year long, no noise got through the thick stone walls. This was his home. And he liked it.

And he knew all too well how awful it was to not have a real home. During his student years, Hogwarts had been a nice substitute, but he could never consider it home. Because he was just passing through. Seven years seemed like an eternity to young people, but once it was over you looked back and realized it went by so quickly, you hardly had time to unpack before you retired your school uniform. Life with his parents had been beyond miserable. Life at Hogwarts was slightly more bearable- but not by much.

He wondered if Hermione Granger found any comfort here. He wanted to think so. She seemed a happy enough girl. But it was an act. A very good one. It seemed the more a person had to hide, the better their mask became.

He rolled onto his stomach and buried his head under his pillows, an old habit he'd never been able to discard.

* * *

That morning he woke up bleary-eyed, his tongue sticking to the roof of his parched mouth. He rolled out of bed, forgetting he'd slept in his clothes and tripping over his robes, cursing. He muttered a lighting spell and ran his tongue along his cracked lips.

_Sweet bloody hell _

Too much medication. He nearly banged his head against the doorframe on his way to the bathroom, he was stumbling so badly. The clock above the mirror read 10:20. He'd slept in. Miracle. His tired reflection blinked slowly, black eyes reproachful, grim. He reached into his shower and turned on the hot water.

Fragments of his dreams came to the surface as he brushed his teeth, which were yellow despite his best efforts, probably from the coffee he drank around the clock. The cigarettes didn't help either. The tops of his index and middle fingers were stained yellow as well, but it couldn't be helped. He spat and scrubbed at his tongue, drawing blood, before rinsing his mouth and slathering a handful of shaving cream onto his face. He was briefly tempted to do a hygiene spell, but decided it wasn't worth the risk of slicing open his carotid artery.

He sneered at himself and shaved his face clean as quickly as possible before stumbling into the shower. The hot water invigorated him. He scrubbed himself down, digging his fingers into his scalp and rubbing vigorously. It didn't matter how hard he scrubbed- his hair would be lank and oily by the end of the day. Didn't matter.

It was going on 12:00 when finally he sat down in his seat in the Great Hall.

"Severus, have you only just gotten up?"

He scowled at Minerva. "I have been marking essays for four hours, if you wish to know. Your latest crop of incompetent first years." He jerked his head at the Gryffindor table, but didn't look over there. Not yet. First, some coffee and a bit of food, if he could force it down his throat.

"Well!" She went back to her tea, shaking her head and clicking her teeth.

Women. So unbearably nosy. Especially once they hit sixty. He poked at a piece of ham with his fork then speared a green bean, studying it before forcing himself to eat the bloody thing. He poured himself a cup of coffee and drank half of it straight away before having another go at his lunch. Everything tasted horrible. His mouth was too dry. He drank more coffee and made sure he had a pack of cigarettes in his pocket.

_Just a quick glance. Just make sure she hasn't… offed herself._

Of course, he probably would have heard about it if she had. He set his coffee cup down, leaned back in his chair, and scanned the Great Hall casually. There she was, sitting next to her friends, talking and eating. Normal. So horrifically normal. Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. Everything. The cuts on her arms, the essay she handed in (an extensive exploration of musical charms- Flitwick came to him later in the week and they switched essays).

He just didn't want it to be real. But of course, it didn't matter how much he wanted anything. Things were how they were, no matter how much a person wished they were different. He couldn't ignore reality.

"Professor Snape, are you free tonight?"

He turned his head very slowly and stared at Professor Umbridge. He enjoyed forcing her to wait for an answer. When she appeared to grow rather impatient he raised his eyebrow. "That would depend, Professor." He spat out her title in distaste.

"I've assigned detention to a student but unfortunately, I am supervising Mr. Potter's detention tonight and his punishment is one of solitude."

So she had Potter in detention. That might have made him almost happy, yesterday. Not today, though. "Who is the student?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Excuse me?" Minerva looked up at the woman, her eyebrows furrowing with disbelief. "You've put Miss Granger in detention? What on earth for? The girl's been a perfect student for five years."

"Disrespect and backtalk," she said smoothly, unruffled by Minerva's response.

Detention? Miss Granger in detention? Suddenly Severus was positive that he should wait. But it was such a perfect opportunity. But he couldn't possibly… he had no idea how to go about this. He was out of his element, far away from his comfort zone, and he hated it. But he had to do this. If it had been something less severe, even just a parent who slapped her around now and then, he might have let it go.

No. He wouldn't have.

Miss Granger made him uncomfortable, in some way. He didn't dislike her. But there was something about her that had always made him feel vaguely uneasy about himself. "I suppose," he said, examining his fingernails, "if you find Potter to be such a handful- which I don't blame you for- then I will supervise Miss Granger's detention."

"Thank you ever so much, Professor Snape, for your assistance."

_Help me_, he thought, abandoning his lunch and retreating back into the dungeons. He spent the afternoon in his office, finishing up all of his grading so that he would have nothing to do that night.

No distractions. He would do it as quickly as possible. Like ripping off a band-aide. Or maybe he would try to ease her into it. How, though? By making small talk? That was a laugh.

_I know what your father does to you._

It sounded awful even in his head.

_I think you need counselling._

Even worse. And what if she denied it? What if she went to the Headmaster and told him that her Potions teacher was harassing her? Not that he cared if she did- Dumbledore was lenient with him, almost to a fault. He could get away with more than most teachers. And he would probably deserve it if she did that. He couldn't hold it against her.

Small talk with a student. Could he do that?

_Enjoying your fifth year, Miss Granger? How's your home life?_

He leaned forward in his chair and rested his head in his hands. He had no idea how to talk to her. He didn't know how to be nice. He'd been coasting through his life for too long, going through the motions but really just resenting everything, not caring. Whatever happened would be horrible for him. If the Dark Lord returned he would have to pull off a massive feat of deception. If the Dark Lord did not return, he would have no reason to stick around.

He was almost relieved when his mark began to burn in June. Finally there was a reason for him to get up in the morning. It would be horrible, and dangerous, and he knew he wouldn't live to see the Dark Lord dead, but at least he could try to make up for some of his mistakes. But he'd never intended on anything like this happening. He should have told Minerva. She would know exactly how to handle the situation.

Severus was so lost in his thoughts that the knock on his office door startled him. "Come in," he said, moving some papers around on his desk in an attempt to look busy. He couldn't look up. Not just yet.

"Sir? Professor Umbridge told me I would be serving detention with you."

He could hear the indignation under her polite tone. "Sit," he said, still not looking at her. His chest felt strangely tight and his heart seemed to have picked up speed. He took a deep breath, tried to gather his scattered thoughts, and pushed his feelings aside, to be dealt with later. He looked up at her as she sat on the edge of her seat, her hands folded in her lap.

Why did he think for even a moment that he could be of any help to Hermione Granger? He couldn't even look at the girl- all he saw was her pinned to the floor, terrified, a hand around her small throat. And that made him feel ill, and angry, and so many other things.

"Professor? Is everything all right?"

Severus realized he wasn't simply looking at Miss Granger- he was in fact staring at her. "Why are you in detention?"

She looked down at her hands. "Erm… for talking back and disrespecting Professor Umbridge, sir."

He glanced at her arms. They were covered well in her black school robes. The sleeves came right down to her wrists and she tugged on the hem with her fingers. Hiding something. He knew what was under there. "What did you say to her?"

Miss Granger looked up at him again, clearly confused. "I told her we needed to do practical work and not just theory, sir."

He got out of his chair and began to pace slowly. Perhaps moving around would make this easier. "Miss Granger… teachers do not like to be told by their students how to do their job."

"I wasn't trying to tell her how to teach, sir. I just-"

"It hardly matters what you were trying to tell her." He didn't mean to lecture the girl, but years of treating his students the way he did made it very difficult to tone his voice down, sound neutral, not cruel. He continued to pace. "I understand, Miss Granger. It can be difficult to put your thoughts into words that others will not misinterpret."

She stared at him as though he'd sprouted another head. He had to forcibly fight the urge to make a snide comment.

"Yes," she said, her eyes suddenly wary. "What should I do, sir?"

Those words were like a knife twisting into his side. He knew she meant to ask what her detention was going to be, but still. He stopped and rested his palms on his desk, leaning forward, studying her. She looked tired. He hadn't noticed. There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were pale. He didn't know what to tell her. He didn't want to make her do anything. "I have nothing for you to do, Miss Granger."

"But I have detention." She was visibly confused by his behaviour. He tried to look at it from her perspective- she'd known him for five years and had probably grown quite accustomed to what she should expect from her Potions teacher. And he was not acting as he generally did.

Severus tried to collect himself. Out with it. Just tell her. But her large brown eyes were so innocent, and she looked very much like a child sitting in front of him with her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. He couldn't. He meant to tell her she could do some homework or read a book- no doubt she had something in her backpack to entertain herself with.

He opened his mouth and it just sort of came out. "Would you like some tea?"

She stared up at him, her cheeks pink, visibly confused. "Err… all right."

He retreated into his living quarters, quite aware that she was watching him carefully (perhaps for any hint that he had suffered a stroke or was under the Imperius curse…). In the warm safety of his own space he took his time gathering mugs and a teapot along with sugar, cream, honey, and lemon slices. He had no idea how she liked her tea. Or even what kind of tea she liked. He had an entire shelf full of teas. Many he'd made himself, in his spare time. He threw a handful of tea bags onto the tray and went back into his office.

"Oh," said Miss Granger, eyeing the tray suspiciously.

"It's only tea, Miss Granger," he said shortly, well-accustomed to being the object of distrust.

"It's not that, sir. Just- where did you get those?" She pointed at his hand-stitched tea bags.

"I made them."

She picked one up and sniffed it. She was starting to feel a bit more comfortable with the direction her detention had taken. That made him feel better about the whole thing, but not by much. "Interesting."

Was making your own tea that fascinating of a hobby? "Valerian and chamomile, with some hibiscus."

She picked up another bag and put it under her nose, her eyes meeting his.

"Dandelion root, horsetail, and nettle."

"Is it good?"

"They're all good, Miss Granger. Pick one." He tried very hard not to sound impatient. "Try this one. Blue vervian, schizandra, and St. John's Wort." Good for depression, stress, and anxiety.

Miss Granger fixed herself a cup of tea, considered her options for what to put in it, and added a quick dash of honey. "Thank you, sir."

He took a breath and forced himself to speak. "You're quite welcome, Miss Granger."

They sat there in silence for a few uncomfortable moments. Severus could almost feel Miss Granger's discomfort. How could he make her feel more comfortable? There wasn't anything he could do, really. He was not known for his exemplary kindness and altruism.

"Have I done something wrong?" she asked finally, holding her mug under her nose and breathing in the heady herbal scent.

"Why do you think that?"

She set her mug down and fidgeted. "It's just… rather strange, Professor. I've never known you to have tea with a student when they're in detention." She looked as though she wanted to say more, but thought better of it, picking up her mug once again and taking a long, deep drink.

"Do you find it unpleasant?"

"No, not at all. Just… strange." She bit her lower lip nervously.

"Unfortunately Professor Umbridge has given you two hours' detention, so you will have to stay here. Do you have homework in your bag? Or a book to read, perhaps?" He realized as soon as he stopped talking that he'd just finished the conversation before it even got a chance to start. He backtracked, annoyed with himself. "Never mind, Miss Granger. Enjoy your tea. Very interesting Charms essay you handed in last week. I enjoyed reading it." He was trying to joke with her, but no doubt it only came out as mocking and mean.

Miss Granger blushed bright pink. "Professor Flitwick didn't say anything, sir… I mixed up my homework assignments-"

He raised his hand and she pursed her lips together. "No harm done, Miss Granger. It was a pleasant break from reading one hundred essays on the same topic."

"That sounds quite dull, sir."

"It is the less pleasant part of teaching." Was this going anywhere? This small talk? He didn't know. Perhaps the tea would help her. Even if she felt just slightly better than she had coming into his office, he would feel as though he'd done something. Not much, but something. So long as he didn't hurt her feelings some way- but he was never very good at calculating how much he actually hurt people. It was just the way he was. Abrasive, easily irritated, a bit short-tempered. He'd never tried to fight his own nature.

"So… am I serving detention?"

"Yes, and you are a quarter of the way through," he said.

She nodded and smiled at him. "Thank you, sir. For being… kind."

He looked away, irritated. Gratitude made him uncomfortable. Though, he was happy to see her smile- then again, it was unlikely to be a sincere one. This seemed like as good a time as any. Like a band-aide. Just rip it off. "Miss Granger, I am sure you're rather confused by my… being kind, as you put it."

"Yes sir."

He looked back at her and tried to give her a smile, but the muscles in his face seemed to fight the movement. He sighed heavily and held her gaze. "Miss Granger. Are you all right? Is there anything you would like to tell me? Perhaps something that you can't talk about with your friends?"

Her eyes widened slightly and she stared back at him like a frightened rabbit. "What do you mean?"

Alarmed. Scared. What did he expect? "Your arms," he said, and let those words hang in the air dangerously. The ball was in her court now. He couldn't pry her for information. She would clam up. He would have to coax it out of her gently, slowly.

"My arms?" She raised her eyebrows.

Ah, denial. He shook his head and tried his tea. It was hot, calming, it soothed his dry mouth and constricted throat. "You have been my student for five years, Miss Granger. Believe it or not, I do pay attention to my students. I know when they are happy, or distressed, or suffering in some way." He set down his mug and stared at her intently. "Why did you do it?"

Miss Granger looked trapped. She sunk down in her chair and visibly pushed herself backwards. "I… I don't know what you're-"

"Don't lie to me," he said softly, trying to sound gentle and patient, all of the things she needed that he couldn't be. This was a terrible idea. He would go to the Headmaster tomorrow morning and tell him Miss Granger was actively hurting herself. She would be put on mental health watch. She would go to classes, eat in the Great Hall, and sleep in the hospital wing under Madam Pomfrey's care. That was what she needed.

Not this.

She began to cry, and it was his turn to lean back, try to put some space between them. He hated when people cried. It was such a raw display of emotions. It disturbed him. "Please," she whimpered, her voice rattling as she tried to catch her breath, "please don't tell anyone, sir." She put her head in her arms and sobbed.

_Well done, Miss Granger. Way to push the right buttons_.

He almost resented her for it, but couldn't even muster that up. He felt too sorry for her. "I'll get you some tissues," he said, for lack of anything better to say, and went back into his living quarters. Again the blissful silence. He grabbed a box of tissues and went back into his office. She was trying to contain herself. "Here you are."

"Thank you." She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose, then balled the tissue up and squeezed it tightly in her fist. "Please, Professor… I didn't mean anything by it. I just…" She trailed off helplessly. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" She began to cry even harder.

He left her for a moment, having decided that there was really only one thing he could do for her. He went into his bathroom, grabbed his prescription bottle and unscrewed the top. Just one. Just to calm her down- he could not deal with hysterical women. People in general, but women were the worst. They cried and begged and became so distressed.

They always got to you in the end, women.

He returned and held out his hand. "Take this, Miss Granger."

She looked up at him, and Severus caught his first real glimpse of Hermione Granger. This girl was not the student he knew. She was hurting, she hated herself, she wanted to die. Most of all, she wanted the world to believe what she showed it. That everything was fine, and she was a normal healthy young woman, and nothing bad or depraved or irreversible had ever happened to her.

She took the pill, swallowed it without question, and drank some tea.

"It will take several minutes."

She nodded, her shoulders drooping, her face covered by her hands. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. This is not your fault, Miss Granger." He would have to give her something more than drugs, tell her something that would make her feel a bit more comfortable with the idea that he knew what others didn't. He sighed to himself and shrugged off his heavy black robes. "Look at me."

She looked up warily. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up above his elbows, then stretched his arms out across his desk. "Here," he said, running his finger along the smooth pink scar that went from his wrist to his inner elbow. It was a quarter-inch wide and very visible. There was a matching one on his other arm.

She stared at his arms, trying to process this.

"They're quite old," he said. "You will have to look closer."

Miss Granger leaned forward across the desk, tentatively lifted her hand, and touched a patch of very faded white scars that ran across the width of his wrist. He flipped his arms over. Some scars were thin and white, others fatter and a touch pink. She took his left arm and turned it over, her eyes moving to his forearm. The mark there was very faint today, but still visible.

"Oh," she whispered.

He almost laughed. Because that had been his reaction, when he saw the photos of her. He put that out of his mind. Not tonight. This was hard enough for her, the poor girl. "Do not think that I don't understand, Miss Granger. I do."

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered.

"Because you'll find one day that you cannot cut deep enough to make yourself feel better," he said. "And you deserve better than that. I won't see you ruin yourself."

"You can't tell anyone, Professor! I promise I won't- I won't do it ever again… Just please don't tell anyone." She looked up at him, her eyes pleading, her fingers resting on his dark mark.

"I can promise you that I will not tell anyone about this, for the time being," he said, sliding his arms away from her and rolling his sleeves down. "I am deeply concerned for you, Miss Granger."

Her lower lip quivered but she managed not to cry. The pill was taking effect. She took another tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "I have Arithmancy homework." She pulled her textbook, some parchment, and a quill out of her bag.

He couldn't blame her for not wanting to talk to him, but they weren't quite finished. "Why are you hurting yourself?"

She shook her head miserably. "I don't know."

_Be patient with her_, he told himself when his automatic response was to demand a more concrete answer. "Perhaps you could dig a little deeper, Miss Granger."

"Stress, I suppose?" She rested her backpack in her lap and fiddled with the strap. Her eyes were beginning to get that glazed-over look he knew very well. The medication dulled everything down, made the world quieter for her.

"Are you feeling calm?"

"Yes, thank you. For the Valium." She gave him a weak smile. "I didn't know wizards had muggle medicine."

"They don't." He picked up the teapot and added more water to his mug, then refilled hers as well. "I have a muggle doctor."

She looked surprised. "Why?"

Ah, this was the Hermione Granger he knew. Nosy, curious, always asking questions. He was relieved to see her, and that was strange, because he was never really relieved to see anyone. "I happen to have quite a bit of faith in muggle medicine, Miss Granger. For certain things, it is superior to what we have in the magical world. Besides that, Dr. Maxwell has been my GP for thirty-three years and I quite like him."

She glanced up at him, now well and truly curious. "Are you not a pureblood, Professor?"

Severus had to physically bite his tongue. Ironically, he'd spent almost half of his life wishing that he was a pureblood, and looking up to those who were, and thinking that if he acted a certain way perhaps he could pass as a pureblood. And now probably the majority of his students assumed that he was- but he no longer really cared. "No, I am not. My father was a muggle."

"Oh." She considered this information for a moment, and then shrugged as though it meant nothing at all. "I didn't know that."

Silence again. They both sipped at their tea. He knew that she knew he was waiting for her to answer his question. Why.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself," she said finally, avoiding his eyes and staring into her mug.

"I know," he said.

"I'm not suicidal."

"It's generally not a state one remains in for very long."

Her eyebrows furrowed and she shook her head. "I just wanted the world to be quiet for a bit. I guess… that's why I did it."

"There are better coping mechanisms."

Miss Granger looked up at him, and for the first time he saw a bit of anger in her light brown eyes. "Like taking drugs?"

He leaned back in his chair, strangely pleased by her anger. She felt things. Not lost, then. Damaged, but not ruined. That was something. She might never be able to connect to a boy, or be physically attracted to anyone, but at least she could express herself. "There is a well-established school of thought in the medical community that believes preventing mental illness with medication is perfectly acceptable."

"I'm _**not**_ mentally ill."

Severus allowed an ironic smile. "I didn't say you were."

She flipped open her textbook and unscrewed a pot of ink, dipping her quill in it and writing down an Arithmancy equation. She was finished talking to him. But he still wasn't quite done.

"As painful as this conversation may be, Miss Granger, I need your attention for one more minute. Please," he added when she didn't look up. That caught her attention. He never said please. Indeed, there were only a handful of people in the world who had ever heard him utter that word. "If you ever have the desire to hurt yourself, I want you to come speak to me."

"I won't do it again," she whispered.

"I'm afraid that's not good enough for me," he said. "Promise me that you will come talk to me if ever the urge strikes you."

She seemed to struggle with the idea for a moment. "Why didn't you tell the Headmaster? Aren't you supposed to? You're not even my head of house. Why do you care about any of this? You hate me."

Severus stared at her, wrestling the urge to say something nasty. She couldn't really think he hated her. That he didn't care. But of course she would think that, wouldn't she? The two people that should care about her more than anything else in the world- her parents- had done horrible things to her. Well, her mother hadn't, to his knowledge. But she had neglected to stop it. And that was almost worse, in a way. He knew.

"Nonsense," he said softly. "I didn't tell the headmaster precisely because I do care about you, Miss Granger. You are my student. I have invested five years into your education in the hope that you will become a productive and responsible member of society. I certainly don't hate you."

"Then why are you so mean to me?"

_Because I don't know how else to be. And it's easier than being whatever I am._

"I don't know," he said.

"Okay." She returned to her homework.

"Miss Granger-"

"I said okay. If I ever even consider it, I'll come see you."

"Thank you," he said. Please and thank you in one conversation. Did she have any idea what a miracle she'd witnessed?

Her lip twitched- almost a smile. He felt his own mouth twitch in response, and bit his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter #3**

"_It is always easier to fight for one's principles than to live up to them." – Alfred Adler_

Wherever she went, there he was, never directly watching her but always nearby. In the library. He would stand there and talk to Madam Pince, then wander about with a book in his hand, then chastise a few students. Every morning on the way to breakfast they crossed paths on the fourth floor staircase, where she knew he had no reason to be. He never spoke to her or acknowledged her unless she was alone, in which case he would suddenly fall in step with her and see her to the Great Hall.

The first time he did this she was quite rattled. She was hurrying down to breakfast, having slept in, hadn't had time to do much with her hair or even brush her teeth. Down the staircase she flew, and he was just sort of standing there on the second landing, next to a suit of armor.

"Miss Granger," he said, and she slowed to a halt in front of him.

"Professor Snape."

He pulled the sleeve of his robe up and looked at his watch. "It's rather late for breakfast."

"I know," she said warily.

He looked up at her as though he hadn't finished his train of thought. "But you should eat. Come along, then."

Hermione was sorely tempted to run away. Seeing Professor Snape embarrassed her. She didn't like that he knew about her cutting herself. She was intensely relieved that he didn't know anything more. Hogwarts used to be a place where she could pretend she was normal- a good student, a good friend, and all of that- but lately it didn't feel quite the same. It was as though a mirror had cracked and when she looked into it she no longer saw the person she wanted to be. It was all fractured and split-up.

"Lost in thought, Miss Granger?"

"Yes," she said timidly, waiting for the snide comment. It never came. It never did anymore. Professor Snape had stopped being mean to her. She considered it almost a miracle of sorts. He was... pleasant. Not really, but relatively speaking. She'd been quite shocked when he showed her his arms. The scarring was horrific, in a fascinating way.

"Not a bad way to be," he said. They walked in silence to the Great Hall. "Have a good day, Miss Granger," he said, leaving her standing in front of the main staircase feeling quite lost.

Professor Snape wanted her to have a good day.

But her days at school were not so good anymore. With Harry retreating from her and Ron, and Professor Umbridge being a general pain, Hermione was beginning to feel everything building up into a knot of stress in her stomach. She'd been honest with Professor Snape that night in his office three weeks ago. She just wanted the world to quiet down for a moment.

Even the library had lost that feeling of being a safe, quiet place. She spent more time there now than she ever had before, but it was different. She got restless with whatever book she was reading, and would pick a new one hoping it would hold her interest. But she couldn't focus or concentrate on anything for more than ten minutes. Even doing her homework had become a chore.

She was staring off into space with a book in her lap when her Potions teacher sauntered up to her casually, his hands in the pockets of his robes. "Miss Granger," he said.

She looked up, startled, then relaxed when she saw it was only him. Funny, after four years she'd gotten used to Professor Snape making her uneasy. But lately that was changing as well. In a single conversation he'd stopped being his usual snide self and had become a civil if slightly aloof teacher with an interest in her well-being that almost flattered Hermione. If only he could be interested in her marks and not her mental state. She rather suspected he thought she was unstable.

"Hello sir," she said.

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down. "What are you reading tonight?"

She lifted the book so he could see the title. _How to Heal with Magic_. "I'm trying to read it," she said gloomily, "but it's not working."

Professor Snape raised one eyebrow and gave her a strange look. "What do you mean by that?"

"Everything seems boring lately." She looked up at him and held his gaze for a moment. His black eyes reflected an understanding that frightened her.

"Perhaps a new hobby might distract you, Miss Granger."

She wanted to snap at him. This was all she had. Books and learning. Knowledge, cleverness. She didn't have anything else to define herself. She needed this. But he'd been very empathetic- something she never would have thought possible- and besides that she was quite sure that despite his kindness he would not hesitate to punish her for giving him cheek. She swallowed the urge to be rude and said, "I think I'm all right, sir."

"Boredom is not something you should cultivate." He drummed his fingers on the wooden table, watching her like a cat would watch a mouse. She felt a bit trapped. He ought to just leave her alone. She was perfectly fine.

_You keep telling yourself that_, said a nasty little voice in the back of her head.

Perfect. She was hearing voices now.

"I have plenty on my plate at the moment, sir. With all due respect," she added quickly.

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Ever the imposing authoritarian. One eyebrow arched in that almost elegant way. "Such as what?"

Hermione looked down at her book. Why did he have to be so interested? Why the questions? She'd always tried so hard in his class to get his attention, to win his approval, and now she had his attention and she didn't particularly want it. Why couldn't they talk about potions? Or the homework assignment he'd given last week? Why did he have to make it personal? "Just… stuff," she said lamely.

When she looked back at him he was frowning at her. "I thought you were more talkative than this, Miss Granger."

_ And I thought you didn't care._

"I'm just tired, sir."

"Perhaps some coffee, then."

Despite her discomfort, there was a part of her that jumped at the opportunity. She knew why- his attention made her feel special. He was not like this with any other student. Not that she knew of, anyway. True, he wasn't openly friendly to her in class or around her friends, but he no longer ignored her. In fact, he'd called on her in the past few weeks more than he had in the past four years. When she raised her hand, he allowed her to answer. When he marked her potion-brewing he no longer said, "Passable," or something similarly belittling. He gave her a nod and moved on.

Hermione hesitated for only a moment. "Err… okay." She closed her book and returned it to the shelf. Her teacher waited for her by the library door, arms still folded, glaring at a group of noisy first years. When they realized they were being watched, they quieted down with grim expressions.

She followed him out the library and down the corridor.

"How are you finding your fifth year, Miss Granger?"

"Hectic," she admitted. "I have OWL exams to think about. And…" Was it appropriate to complain about Professor Umbridge? He might not like that. She couldn't be sure unless she said something about it.

"Go on," he said, glancing at her briefly as they descended to the second floor corridor.

"I wish we had a normal Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." There. That sounded a bit more neutral than telling him Professor Umbridge was rubbish.

He laughed, which startled her a bit- he never laughed. "Do you now? I suppose you've had a bad run with teachers in that class."

"Yes… and we _should_ be learning Defensive magic, especially now, you know." She guessed that he would know better than anyone just how true that statement was.

"I agree with you, Miss Granger- it's a delicate situation, however. The Headmaster's hands are quite tied with the matter."

"But he hired her," she said.

He gave her a look that suggested there was much more to it than that. She knew there was, but it seemed such a simple problem. Fire the teacher who wasn't doing her job, and hire a new one. Problem solved. "Yes, well. Professor Dumbledore has a history of hiring people he shouldn't."

He couldn't possibly be talking about himself, could he? "All of my other teachers are very good," she said shyly, looking down at her shoes.

"Is that so? I heard you had quite a scuffle with your Divination teacher a while ago."

"There was no scuffle." She felt her cheeks get a bit warm. "I just didn't like the subject."

Professor Snape held his office door open for her and she went in, sitting in the rather uncomfortable chair in front of his desk. It suddenly morphed underneath her and she collapsed into a large, squashy armchair. "Umph!"

"Better," he said, pocketing his wand.

She frowned at him as he disappeared through a door at the back of his office. She'd never noticed it until her detention that night, and now she found herself curious. Where did it lead to? His living quarters?

He came back with coffee. She liked that hot beverages took literally under a minute to prepare in the wizarding world. No waiting for the kettle to boil.

"Which of your classes do you like most, Miss Granger?"

Again with the personal questions. She committed herself wearily to accepting that this was how things were going to be from now on. She may as well be honest with him- he knew more about her than most. And that was rather sad, considering she had two wonderful friends to share her life with. "Arithmancy, I suppose. Or Potions."

He handed her a steaming cup of coffee. "Do you need sugar? Cream?"

She shook her head. "Ick… no."

"Good for you," he said, and sounded as though he really meant it. "So you enjoy Potions."

"Of course." She couldn't tell if he was flattered or not.

"You best study hard then, if you want to take it next year. I only allow students with an Outstanding into my NEWT classes." He studied her for a moment, and she tried to guess what he was thinking. It was impossible, though. No emotions ever seemed to register on his face- except for contempt, disgust, and impatience. But with those out of the equation, he seemed almost blank and apathetic. "I have something for you."

She leaned forward, curious, as he fished a bottle out of his pocket. The liquid inside was a soft, fleshy pink. He set it next to her coffee cup. She uncapped it and held it to her face, breathing in. It smelled faintly like roses. "What is it?"

"A scar treatment of sorts."

"What's it called, though?"

He shrugged, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. "It doesn't have a name, Miss Granger. I don't generally name my concoctions."

Hermione tried vainly not to look surprised. He could just do that? Throw ingredients together with an end product in mind? She glanced at him, feeling shy again as she rolled up one sleeve. The marks on her arm had faded to a rather ugly reddish purple hue. She dabbed a bit of the stuff onto her fingers. It had a very oily consistency, but she knew instantly that it would do something. It seemed to shimmer for a moment before sinking into her skin. She tipped the bottle and dropped some right on her arm, then rubbed it in quickly. The mark began to fade to a very light pink.

"That's amazing," she said faintly.

"Do not share it with anyone, no matter how much they complain about their woeful little acne spots," he said shortly. She looked up, taken aback by the sudden coldness. His expression instantly softened. "The ingredients needed to make it are very… hard to come by. I can't make more. So use it wisely, Miss Granger."

"Why don't you use some?"

It seemed an innocent enough question, but he looked quite uncomfortable. "It won't work for me."

"Why not?"

"Because it cannot work on anything involving dark magic." Professor Snape sipped at his coffee, watching her, perhaps waiting for a reaction.

"Oh," she said, biting her lip nervously. "I see. How did you know it would work for me?"

He smiled- well, it was more of a smirk, but maybe that was just the way he always smiled. "I highly doubt you've had any serious exposure to dark magic, Miss Granger."

"I was petrified by a basilisk in my second year."

"Unfortunate, but I'm afraid that does not qualify. Nor does growing a tail from inappropriate Polyjuice consumption." He looked as though he might laugh, but managed to contain it. "Not a good year for you, was it?"

"No," she said, staring at him, alarmed. He knew she'd made Polyjuice potion. Which meant that he knew she'd broken into his private stores.

"I was far too impressed to punish you for brewing such an advanced potion."

She smiled, unable to deny the little flair of pride in her chest. "Thank you. For… everything." It came out a mumble though she tried to sound confident, secure.

He shrugged, almost looking uncomfortable again. Funny, that. He didn't seem to like being thanked. "It's no bother, Miss Granger."

They sat there quietly, drinking their coffee. It occurred to Hermione that perhaps it was a bit late for coffee, and she might have trouble sleeping, but then, she usually had trouble anyway. At least now she wouldn't be tired and unable to sleep. That was a horrible feeling. She had a big day tomorrow. It was the first meeting for Dumbledore's Army. Harry would be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. A poor substitute for a real teacher, but he had more qualifications than any other student.

The caffeine made her feel a bit more sociable than usual. "Professor?"

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Did you apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job this year?"

He tilted his head slightly, eyeing her up, his black eyes unfathomable. "Yes."

"Why didn't Professor Dumbledore give it to you, then?"

A sardonic smile graced his face. "The headmaster does not want me to teach defensive magic."

"But why not? I'm sure you're very well-versed in it."

"I am," he said evenly. "Perhaps a little too well-versed."

"I wish it was you rather than Professor Umbridge," she said.

He gave her a strange look. "I would not be a fun teacher to have in that class, Miss Granger. I did not learn defensive magic the way any right-minded person would teach it."

"How did you learn?"

"By defending myself."

_Like Harry_, she thought off-handedly. "But you want to teach that class," she said.

"Yes."

"You don't want to teach Potions?"

"It gets aggravating." He poured another cup of coffee from the carafe, then topped her cup off as well. "Interesting how quickly caffeine works on you, Miss Granger."

She looked down at her coffee and tried to repress a smile. An idea was forming in her mind. A half-baked idea, but still. An idea that might actually be helpful. "Could you teach me?"

"Teach you what?"

"Defensive magic," she said weakly, trying to hold his gaze. He could be awfully intense at times. "I know you're probably very busy, sir-"

"I am not _that_ busy, Miss Granger." He watched her as she began to fiddle with her Prefect badge, dropping her eyes to her lap. She wanted to squirm but resisted the urge, folding her hands neatly and digging her nails into her palms to avoid looking nervous.

"Would you get in trouble, if you did?"

"Most likely, yes." He drummed his fingers on his desk. She knew he was still watching her. Calculating something, most likely. He struck her as an extremely calculating, analytical man. "It is not my place to give you private lessons, Miss Granger. Not at my own discretion."

She abandoned the idea. If she had Professor Snape teaching her defense magic, she might be able to give Harry some help- be an assistant of sorts. And besides that, it would be nice to have some proper Defense lessons. But Professor Snape was right- he couldn't teach her a subject that wasn't his, without at least informing the headmaster. And besides that, he would be going against Umbridge's (and by extension, the Ministry's) orders. No practical application. Theory only.

Not to mention he had more than enough on his plate with his involvement in the Order of the Phoenix. She couldn't expect him to give up what little free time he had. "Sorry," she said quietly. "I shouldn't have asked."

"I haven't said no."

"I don't want you to get in trouble."

This seemed to amuse her Potions teacher more than anything. "Don't be ridiculous, Miss Granger. Of all the things I've done that should have gotten me sacked, this would not rank as very serious at all."

She couldn't begin to imagine what some of those things might be, but his words encouraged her. "If the Ministry ever found out, though."

"You wish to learn defensive magic at the fifth year level?" he asked, cutting her off.

"Yes… well, maybe a bit more as well."

"It can be very trying. It certainly is not an easy subject."

Her heart gave a little skip of excitement. "I enjoy being challenged, sir."

"Very well, then."

"Aren't you quite busy already, though?" Hermione took a sip of her coffee, watching him carefully, wondering what could possibly motivate him to give her private lessons when he seemed to so despise teaching in general. Maybe it was the subject matter that made him agree to it. She doubted he would want to give private lessons in Potions.

He gave her a very serious look. "No."

"But with the Order-"

"Don't concern yourself with that, Miss Granger. I am available weeknights after 7:00, and on Sundays."

She didn't want to take his one day off away from him. "Mm… every Tuesday?"

Professor Snape smiled- it was a rather dangerous smile, she noticed- and shook his head. "That won't do. You will need more than one weekly lesson if you have any hope of learning how to defend yourself against dark magic."

Hermione bit her lower lip nervously. Maybe this was a bad idea. It probably was. Professor Dumbledore must have a good reason for keeping him well away from the Defense Against the Dark arts job. "Erm…"

"Monday, Wednesday, and Friday." He folded his arms and stared her down. "Take it or leave it, Miss Granger."

What kind of choice was that? "Okay," she said. "What will I tell Harry and Ron, when they start asking where I am all the time?"

"Tell them you are earning extra credit," he added crisply.

"Doing what?"

"Scrubbing cauldrons."

* * *

"You _what_?"

"I'm taking lessons in defensive magic," she said, pulling the cheese off of her toast and eating it slowly. "With Professor Snape."

"That's a brilliant plan," Ron said, his tone of voice that exasperating one that she hated so much, "having a Death Eater throwing hexes at you three nights a week."

She gave him a look to match his tone of voice. "If you're implying his intentions are not what they seem, Ronald, you should know that it was my idea."

"Bonkers," he said. "Who would want to spend more time with Snape?"

"_Professor_ Snape."

"I dunno, Hermione…" Harry trailed off, accepting another slice of peach cobbler from a house-elf hovering beside him. "Seems a bit dangerous. Brilliant, but dangerous. I'm sure Snape knows plenty about Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he probably also knows more dark magic than anyone at Hogwarts."

"Yes," she said, "which is why he'll make an excellent teacher."

"Just don't get yourself killed." He handed his plate to Ron, who took it happily.

"Oh Harry," she said impatiently, "we've been through this before. Remember? First year? We thought he was jinxing you but it was Quirrel?"

"Yeah, yeah." Harry waved his hand dismissively. "Well, hopefully you learn something. Preferably not dark magic, either."

"For heaven's sake, he's not going to teach me dark magic!" Hermione threw her hands up in disgust and slid her chair back. "I asked him to help me. I told him we weren't learning anything, and it was making me very nervous, all things considered, and then I asked him if he wouldn't mind teaching me how to defend myself."

Her friends shared a look, and Harry conceded, resting his hand on the back of her chair to stop her from leaving. "Sorry, Hermione. It's just… you know how I feel about Snape."

She opened her mouth to correct him.

"Professor Snape," he added quickly. "You know I don't trust him."

"Right," she said, trying not to recoil from him patting her shoulder reassuringly. Still, despite how close they were, how deeply she trusted Harry, the pressure of his palm on her shoulder made her skin crawl.

* * *

Monday morning came far too soon. When she got into the shower, she noticed that her arms were miraculously clear, the skin smooth and unmarked, almost gleaming. Incredible. She showered quickly, not bothering with shampoo- her hair had been particularly dry, and consequently frizzy, as of late- then brushed her teeth and got dressed. She took out the small glass bottle and stared into the pink liquid moodily.

She could not deny it. Professor Snape's attitude towards her extended well beyond the concerned teacher. But why he acted the way he did, she could only begin to guess.

She dabbed the tiniest amount of her potion on her cheek, testing it. It shimmered and sank into her skin, leaving a subtle glow. She held the bottle up to the light and its contents glimmered prettily.

_What are you?_

She put a tiny drop on the ends of her hair. They gleamed for a moment, then turned glossy and smooth.

When she heard Lavender shut her shower off, Hermione quickly pocketed the bottle and hurried out of the bathroom.

At least she wouldn't have to mind her sleeves anymore.

She met up with Harry and Ron, and they headed to the Great Hall for breakfast. Professor Snape was lingering at the top of the main staircase. He was talking to Professor Flitwick- they seemed to be having quite a candid conversation. He even cracked a smile, though again it was more of a smirk. A Snape smile, she decided.

"Miss Granger," he said as they approached him, "a word."

She ignored her friends, who were surely giving her warning looks as she stepped aside to speak to him. "Good morning, sir."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed." He glanced up at the ceiling in disgust. She followed his gaze and realized the enchanted sky was a flurry of sleet and snow whirling above them. "7:00, Miss Granger. I suggest you have a big breakfast. You will need your strength."

She swallowed despite trying to put on a brave face. "Thank you, sir."

He inclined his head and resumed his conversation with Professor Flitwick, who gave her a sympathetic smile as she followed Harry and Ron down the staircase.

"Mental," Ron muttered as they sat down.

Hermione reached for a steaming bowl of scrambled eggs and loaded her plate up. "I'm doing this for all of us, Ron. If we don't learn how to defend ourselves, we'll be helpless against you-know-who."

"Appreciate the sacrifice, Hermione." Harry watched, bemused, as she took several rashers of bacon and one slice of rye toast. "Hungry?"

"Not really," she said distractedly. "But I'll need every bit of energy I can get. Would you pass the peanut butter, Ron?"

He handed it to her wordlessly.

"Post," Harry declared, yanking his cereal bowl aside as Hedwig landed right in front of him.

Hermione was so intent on finishing her enormous breakfast that she didn't even register the owl swooping towards her and dropping a letter into her orange juice. She fished it out quickly, giving it a shake to remove the moisture, and opened it.

_ Hermione,_

_ We'll be having you at home for Christmas. Gran is in the hospital again._

_ Love,_

_ Mum_

She crumpled the letter, feeling a part of her crumple up along with it. Not fair. And what could she do? She wasn't an adult in the wizarding world. She couldn't just say no.

Her mood ruined and her appetite gone, she pushed her plate aside and waited for Harry and Ron to finish so they could go to Herbology.

* * *

"We will start with disarming." He paced back and forth, twirling his wand in his fingers.

"I know how to disarm, sir." Her nerves were completely frayed and she had nothing left to give today. In fact she wouldn't have come if it wasn't for the fact that she knew he would be suspicious. Probably even come looking for her. She didn't need that.

He stopped and faced her, one eyebrow raised. "Do you?"

She pulled her wand out, suddenly wondering whether Harry and Ron hadn't been on to something when they'd expressed their concerns about Professor Snape. "Yes."

"Good," he said. "Disarm me."

"Sir?"

"Disarm me, Miss Granger."

She lifted her wand hesitantly. Some sort of trick. He blinked slowly, watching her. Playing games, like a cat tormenting a mouse. He seemed extraordinarily calm. "Expelliarmus!" she cried, putting as much force into it as she could muster, though she was tired and felt rather numb.

He flicked his wand casually and the spell was disrupted. "Again, Miss Granger."

"Expelliarmus!"

Nothing. He smirked. She tightened her grip on her wand. "EXPELLIARMUS!"

He flicked his wand yet again and her spell accomplished nothing.

"Stop that!" she panted, catching her breath and glaring at him. It took some effort not to start crying out of frustration and exhaustion.

"I hardly think telling an adversary to 'stop that' will convince him to back down."

"I can't disarm you," she said.

"I thought you knew how."

"So did I," she said, her shoulders slumping in defeat. He came to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, squaring them.

"Stand straight, Miss Granger. I understand- it's very frustrating to attempt a spell that you know works, one that you've used before and have confidence in, only to have it do nothing. Here, hold your wand like so." He adjusted her fingers slightly and raised her arm. "Keep your wrist lined up with your chin. I will teach you how to diffuse spells later- it's quite a useful thing. Now, disarm me."

She kept her shoulders straight and her arm rigid. "Expelliarmus!"

His wand flew neatly out of his hand and into hers. She'd never held his wand before or even really seen it up close. It was quite thin and a rich dark brown in color. She let it settle in her palm, trying to get a feel for it, and by extension perhaps a feel for Professor Snape.

"Rowan, thirteen inches, unicorn tail hair. Quite springy," he said. She blushed for some reason and handed it back to him. "Since I am not quite sure how extensive your defensive abilities are, Miss Granger, we are going to have a little duel, if you don't mind."

A little duel? With him? She minded that very much. He was a very good wizard, she knew that. And she'd never really been in a proper duel.

"You look frightened."

"I'm not," she said, squaring her shoulders, brushing off her concerns, trying to find her courage. "I don't mind, sir. But I've never been in a duel before." _So go easy on me_, she added mentally.

"I won't hurt you, Miss Granger."

"I know." She kept her feet planted firmly on the floor, her head up, her wand raised level with her chin.

He smiled thinly, but it seemed fake to her, as though he'd seen someone else wear that expression and was trying to copy it. If he was going for reassuring, he was not doing a good job of it. He lifted his wand and waited.

"Stupefy!"

Professor Snape flicked his wand lazily. "Protego."

Shield charm. She mentally ran a list of spells that might break through it. "Reducto!" The silvery shield dissolved and left her teacher unprotected. "Petrificus Totalis!"

"Good," he said, blocking her spell easily. "Stupefy."

She fell to the floor, rolled, and pointed her wand up at him desperately, shooting off a tongue-tying jinx. "Mimble wimble!"

Professor Snape gave her a very peculiar look.

"Expelliarmus!" she cried.

He flicked his wand, his expression bored once more.

"Incendio!"

"Levicorpus!"

Suddenly her body was jerked up into the air and she found herself floating several feet off the ground. Her spell dissipated several feet away from Professor Snape. He set her down neatly on her feet before she had a chance to even think about what to do next.

"I've never heard of that spell," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Haven't you? It's quite common." His mouth twitched, as though he was sharing a private joke with himself. "That will do for now, Miss Granger. You seem to be at a sufficient skill level for a fifth year student. But cheap tricks and disarming charms will not get you very far." He went to his desk and picked up a book. "Read this. Pay particular attention to the theory on shielding and blocking spells. We will pick up on Wednesday."

She took the book from him- it was not a textbook that she was familiar with. "Thank you, sir."

He nodded, watching her with his dark, unfathomable eyes. "You're tired."

"Yes," she said, realizing suddenly that their brief duel had left her sore and exhausted.

"Sleep well, then"

She nodded, glad that he had no prying questions for her, and left.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Thank you for the feedback and criticism. It is always appreciated.**

**Chapter #4**

"_In its early stages, insomnia is almost an oasis in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.__" – Sidonie Gabrielle Collete_

* * *

The soft orange flicker of a dying candle played across his desk as he scribbled lazily on a third year student's essay. Sloppy work and textbook answers. It made him wonder if there was any hope for the wizarding world, with the next generation being a bunch of uncreative dolts. Probably not. Besides that, he didn't concern himself with such things as the future. It was all rather inapplicable to him anyway.

Severus had been impressed with Hermione Granger tonight. She'd produced an effective backfiring spell, which had left him rather sore from being flung across the room. She'd been mortified and apologetic and her hands fluttered nervously, but he'd sat up with a smile and told her he was fine, and she was improving.

His back hurt and his left arm felt quite prickly. Tomorrow night, maybe. He couldn't be sure. After two weeks of lessons with Miss Granger he had decided she must be fairly stable- she had recovered enough from being confronted by him that she could readjust that mask of hers' and carry on enthusiastic, chipper, and curious.

She was okay. For now. He always kept a close eye on her. Funny, she seemed to have gotten quite used to it. One morning he had not been waiting for her where he usually did, deciding that she probably had not killed herself the night before, only to observe her come down the staircase and look around, her eyebrows knitted slightly with confusion. Then she saw him at the teachers' table, gave a shy little wave, and smiled.

He thought again that she was so very young. He gave her a slight nod.

Now as the clock on his desk showed 2:00, he decided that though he wasn't tired and felt no desire to sleep, he ought to retire for the night. Maybe a drink would send him off. But he didn't want a drink- he rarely did, since the smell of alcohol was so deeply tied to memories of his father. And he didn't want his medication, because really it was not any sort of anxiety or restlessness that kept him up.

Rather, it was the feeling of calm, the utter silence, the sensation of him being the only soul in the castle who was awake and thinking. He liked that. He'd always felt much better at night. Not in the evenings when everyone prepared for bed and relaxed, but well after midnight. There was something about the stillness that appealed to him. Productivity became easy and all of the tasks that needed done, that seemed overwhelming during the day, turned into pleasant distractions from sleep.

He knew it was insomnia. Of course it was. But he rather enjoyed suffering from it. He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and breathed slowly, counting to ten, holding his breath, exhaling, counting to nine, holding his breath, exhaling, counting to eight…

He could almost fall asleep this way…

_One, two, three…._

The soft rapping on his door startled him so badly he instinctively pulled out his wand before remembering that he was in his office and that nobody who would be knocking on his door at 2:00 A.M would have any intentions of harming him. He put his wand away and adjusted his expression into one of irritation. "Enter!"

Probably the Headmaster. Or Filch.

His door opened just enough for a wild-haired Hermione Granger to poke her head in. Of all the things Severus been expecting, she hadn't even made the list. He didn't even have to think about looking concerned- it came quite organically, and he would have made note of that fact but he was far too distracted by genuine surprise.

"Come in," he said softly.

"It's so late," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." _I wasn't going to sleep tonight anyway._

She stepped into his office. Her robes were quite wrinkled and she'd obviously just plucked them off the floor and thrown them on over her sleeping gown. Her feet were covered in a pair of battered pink slippers. He had never seen her so disheveled. It was hard to reconcile this girl with the image of a neatly dressed student, hair patted down into relative submission and Prefect badge glinting nicely. Skirt pressed and tie straight.

"I didn't know what else to do," she said, pulling out a chair and perching herself on the edge of it.

"That's all right." He transfigured the rigid, uncomfortable hardwood into a soft, cushioned armchair. She sank into it, trying to smile but failing miserably.

_Please don't cry_, he though.

She didn't cry. She only looked down at her hands, her bottom lip quivering.

"Do you want to talk, Miss Granger?"

She shook her head. "No… I just… no."

He understood. Talking about feelings was unpleasant, painful. That he understood very well. But he didn't quite know why she'd come to him in the middle of the night, visibly upset. What could he do for her? "What would you like, Miss Granger?"

"Tea," she whispered. "I would like some tea, sir."

Severus almost smiled, but her voice was so dead and defeated that any sense of amusement he might have felt was wiped clean. "Very well," he said. His own voice came out gentle, soft, relaxed from the breathing exercise he'd been engaged in. As he went into his living quarters he allowed himself to return to that state of mind- calm, soft, gentle. It was not a state he let anyone ever see him in. But for her…

When he returned to his office she had the sleeves of her robes rolled up. There was enough blood for him to be unsure just how deep the cuts were.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He set his tray down and went around his desk, crouching in front of her. "Please," he said, extending his hands. She looked down at him, her eyes flat and apathetic. She let him take her wrists gently. "Sorry."

"Miss Granger… " His breath hitched in his throat, which startled him. _Stop. Control yourself._ "Why are you sorry?"

"I told you I wouldn't," she said.

"I'm not disappointed," he said, taking out his wand and slowly cleaning the dried blood from her arms. "I'm relieved that you came to me."

"What else could I do?" A flicker of emotion had entered her voice, and he knew if she kept talking she would come to tears. But that was okay. She had reason to cry. "You're not angry."

"No," he whispered, sealing the cuts up with a healing spell. "I'm not angry."

"I hate myself," she said. It was perhaps the single most honest thing Severus had ever heard from her.

He stood and fixed her a cup of tea. No honey… it might keep her up. A slice of lemon for extra taste, though. "Why do you hate yourself, Miss Granger? You're a bright, intelligent girl. You're very kind, very clever, you have a good future ahead of you. You have friends who care about you." He knew already that none of that mattered, though. Self-hatred was not about what you had. It was about what you didn't have. What you would never have. What you would never be.

"I know. It doesn't help." She took her mug and sipped at it. Still on the verge of tears, that horrible place where you almost felt something yet you were dead inside. Empathy was a rare thing for him to feel, but he felt it now like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

"Why did you do this?"

She looked up at him, a tear finally freeing itself from her eye and trickling down her cheek. "I don't want to kill myself. I just… I…"

"Don't want to live," he filled in for her, watching her dissolve into gentle sobs. "Miss Granger, I think perhaps it's time you consider counselling."

She shook her head, crying, unable to answer.

"As much as I care, it does not make me fit to help you," he said. Much as he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to help her. But good intentions were just that, and nothing more.

She gave a soft hiccup and lifted her face out of her hands. "No… I don't want counselling. I don't want anyone knowing what goes on in my head…. Can't you understand that, Professor?"

She was aiming at his sense of privacy, his own personal stoicism. And she had fairly good aim. Maybe she knew him better than he thought she did. "Of course, Miss Granger. I understand."

"Do you even believe in counselling?"

_That_ was a worthy question, one he hadn't even asked himself before telling her she ought to pursue it. He'd only defaulted into the automatic assumption that some therapy would help her. It was what any decent teacher, any decent adult, would do. He tried to imagine how he would have reacted at sixteen, being told he should seek help. He would have discarded the idea immediately. He would have thought it was the last thing he needed.

"I don't know," he said. _Bad teacher_. "Do you?"

She shrugged. What did either of them know?

_So this is what it feels like to commiserate with someone…._

He couldn't say he didn't like it. "What brought this on? Were you feeling this badly during our lesson?" Had he simply not noticed? Were her acting skills that good?

"No," she said, clearing her throat and wiping the tears from her eyes, sniffling. "No, it was later. Always at night. I don't know why… I was just sitting in bed, reading."

Always at night. The words rang in his head like an alarm going off. Poor, poor girl. "Do you not feel safe at night?"

Her eyebrows shot up and he knew his words rang true for her. "I don't know. I guess I don't," she whispered. "Bad things always happen at night."

"Nothing bad will happen to you at Hogwarts, Miss Granger. You're safe here."

"I know."

Silence. Should he wait for her to speak? Would she say anything if he gave her the option? He'd decided that there would never be a good time to bring up her father's sexual abuse, and with that in mind he'd decided that it would come up eventually and so he wouldn't push the matter.

"I dream about bad things," she said, curling her legs up and hugging her knees. "I can't sleep most of the time."

"I would offer you a potion for that, but unfortunately they are very habit-forming."

She nodded, understanding. Of course she already knew that.

He didn't know what else to say to her, except that he understood. He knew about bad dreams. And not sleeping. "Perhaps you might find it helpful to try not sleeping, Miss Granger."

"What do you mean?" She uncurled her legs and massaged her kneecaps.

"Rather than lying in bed waiting for bad dreams."

She looked at him, her brown eyes knowing. "Did you have good parents, Professor?"

Patience paid off, apparently. But this was turning into a conversation he didn't want to have. It was too personal, too close. Bad dreams, bad parents, the crushing desperation to get to sleep and never wake up. The alternative was not appealing, though. Turn her over to a professional? She almost seemed to trust him, and he didn't particularly want to obliterate that trust.

"No," he said.

Miss Granger took a long, pondering sip of tea. "What is this?"

"Horsetail, dandelion root, and nettle." He looked down at his own tea. He would rather have his teeth pulled out one at a time, with no anesthetic, than discuss his parents. Or himself, even. But knowing she very likely felt the same way gave him a sense that it was only fair. Give and take. He would have to give a little more. Being a fellow self-mutilator would only get him so far. "I did not have a happy home life. Hogwarts was a way out for me."

She looked uncertain, as though she regretted bringing up parents.

_Give a little more, Severus._

"I ran away the summer after my fifth year," he added quietly. Just putting it out there.

"I can't imagine you being fifteen," she said, her mouth turning up slightly.

"I was not as impressive twenty years ago." No, indeed not. Skinny, malnourished, miserable.

"Where did you go?" Her eyes had brightened a little- she probably had not considered leaving home before. It was a novel idea, maybe even a glimmer of hope.

Where had he gone? It was not really a story that inspired hope, of all things. "I went to London."

"But where did you stay?"

"Nowhere in particular, Miss Granger. I was homeless."

"Oh!" Her eyes widened and a slight blush came into her cheeks. "I'm sorry, sir."

"It was preferable to living with my parents," he said. "Unbelievable as that may sound."

"I believe it," she said.

"Are your parents not good to you?" It sounded so strange, coming out of his mouth, in his voice, the gentle prying, the genuine interest, the concern. He imagined she was thinking the same thing.

"No," she whispered. "They're not. And I don't want to go home for Christmas."

Ah, there it was. Severus felt something he hadn't for a long while. Pride. A sense of having accomplished something truly good and decent. It was a wonderful feeling. He wanted to revel in it, but couldn't right now. He set it aside for later. More important things to deal with at the moment.

"But I can't do anything about it, because I'm only sixteen," she added, real anger in her voice, matching her angry brown eyes.

"I'm well-aware, Miss Granger," he said gently. "That is very unfortunate."

She scowled at him. "That doesn't help, Professor. It doesn't matter anyway. It's only two weeks. I'll survive." Her voice had turned quite bitter.

His blood ran cold and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Only two weeks? And she would survive? Survive being raped and videotaped by her father? Being choked and slapped and- "Perhaps you could speak to the Headmaster, Miss Granger. He has made exceptions before. If you are going home to an environment that is dangerous or detrimental-"

"No," she said quickly. "I don't want to bother Professor Dumbledore. Harry says he's very busy… and I'm sure he is."

He knew it was a convenient cover-up, but didn't pursue the matter. "I am sorry, Miss Granger. I understand feeling helpless."

Her anger dissipated and she gave him a very weak but genuine smile. "Thank you, Professor."

"For what?" He was honestly baffled by the sudden change in mood.

Miss Granger shrugged her thin shoulders, smiling at him. "For… talking, I guess."

Before he could rein himself in Severus was smiling back at her. A real smile. He did not have much practice and it made his face feel rather strange. "You are quite welcome, Miss Granger. If you ever feel the need to talk, or have tea… or simply just cannot sleep, you know where to find me." There. An open invitation, but no pressure to accept it.

She finished her tea and bade him good night. He watched her leave, his heart doing funny things in his chest. He picked up where he left off, letting himself get lost in the feeling of having done good for her.

_Three, two one…._

* * *

This time he was not startled by the knock on his door at 2:30. Still a reasonable hour, wasn't it? He'd only just changed out of the heavy black robes, discarded his mask with distaste, and washed his hands until they were red from being scrubbed so hard.

He started reading December's issue of _The Monthly Brew_ when he heard the gentle, hesitant knocking. "Come in," he called. No need to be harsh. Who else could it possibly be?

_You're getting soft_, he accused himself, though the thought didn't really bother him. It did rather amaze him that he could go from such violence and debauchery to gentle calmness in less than half an hour.

Much as she'd done a week ago, Hermione Granger stuck her head in the door shyly, then entered his office, her pink slippers swishing against the cold stone floor. He could tell that tonight was different, though. She was not distressed, she did not look particularly hollow and empty. Tired, certainly- she'd taken his advice and given up on sleep, but he'd had twenty-five years to adjust whereas her body seemed to rebel against this new lack of rest. Still, her eyes were brighter and she smiled more often. A real smile, too.

"Is it too late for tea?" she asked uncertainly.

"Of course not." He set down his journal and considered her. She was restless tonight. A different kind of restless he hadn't seen in her before. It made him a bit uneasy, if he was honest. She hadn't bothered with her schoolrobes and instead wore a fuzzy black bathrobe that bared her arms from the elbows down. They were clear and unscarred. That made him smile. She shivered suddenly, compulsively. He coughed and looked at her face. "It's quite a bit warmer in my living quarters, Miss Granger, if you don't mind."

She tilted her head. "I don't mind."

He stood and she followed him at a distance, perhaps a little hesitant to intrude into her teacher's personal life. She closed the door behind her and followed him through the den into the ridiculously small kitchen. He glanced down at her, bemused, as he threw a tray together.

"Oh," she said, squeezing herself up against the wall so that he could go back into the den.

"It's quite small," he said.

She sat down in his favourite chair. The antisocial recluse in him bristled with resentment. He squashed it down impatiently and sat on his ill-used sofa. It felt strange. This was strange. Students were not allowed in teachers' living quarters. But the fireplace had a good healthy blaze that threw off enough heat to warm the whole room, and he didn't want to be Professor Snape at the moment, and perhaps there was a small part of him that wanted her to see his home, for one reason or another.

"It feels safe," she said softly.

There was nowhere in Hogwarts with more protective spells on it than Severus Snape's living quarters.

"Books," she added with a genuine little grin, her eyes flitting over his crammed bookshelves.

He snorted in amusement. Oh yes, he had books. On every subject available. His own personal library. Plenty of them also happened to be officially banned by the Ministry of Magic, but young Hermione Granger didn't need to know that. "I do enjoy reading."

She smiled and fixed herself a cup of tea. "Why did you call me an insufferable know-it-all?"

Severus felt actual physical pain in his stomach at the thought. Oh yes, he had called her that. Made her cry. The thought now made him almost nauseous. But what could he say? Sorry? He didn't mean it? That wouldn't be fair to her, and she was smarter than that. Besides, she would think he only apologized out of guilt. "Why did you take it as an insult?"

"It was!"

"I was merely stating a fact."

"Insufferable is not a fact."

He shrugged, relieved that she could smile about it now. "If it helps, Miss Granger, I consider everyone insufferable. Myself included."

"That doesn't help," she said. "That makes me feel sorry for you."

"Ah, well. I was never very good at helping."

She toyed with a silver spoon, staring past him. "Oh, I don't know. You've been helpful to me." Her eyes widened very slightly and she glanced at him before looking back towards the fireplace.

"What is it, Miss Granger?"

She pointed across the room. He followed her gaze to the heap of black robes on the floor, the mask right there as well. Leaving his dirty laundry lying around. "Those don't look like your regular robes."

He flicked his wand at the offending clothing, sending them flying into his hamper.

Miss Granger looked down at her tea. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Why is it you feel the need to constantly apologize?" he asked, well-aware of the impatience creeping into his voice, but unable to stop it. They should have stayed in his office, maybe. He didn't really regret bringing her in here. It just felt strange. He was not used to having people in his life. And Miss Granger somehow had found her way into his life very quickly. She now occupied and had all to herself a nice, cozy corner of his mind.

She looked guilty, and he felt bad. Interacting with people shouldn't be so difficult. He tried to think of something nice to say.

_Give a little, Severus_

"I'm… sorry." _You're an idiot_, he told himself

Her childlike eyes widened. "Oh! Erm… don't be. I suppose it's just a habit, sir. I try to give all of my teachers the respect they deserve."

Not very long ago he would have assumed her constant apologizing was just an attempt to suck up to him. He really was just a bitter person, wasn't he? "I have had a very busy night, Miss Granger."

"I hope it was productive," she said carefully.

"It certainly was."

"Good." She drank her tea and glanced at the magazine on his table. "What's that?"

Intensely grateful for the subject change, he handed it to her. "A monthly academic journal."

"Oh! On potions?"

He actually laughed. "No, Miss Granger. On gardening."

She tried to glare at him but it was rather ineffective when paired with a smile. "Can I look?"

"Go ahead."

She flipped it open curiously. "So you do like the subject you teach."

"Of course I like it. It's banging on about how to follow directions that I dislike."

She laughed. "Oh dear."

"Miss Granger?"

She looked up, her expression too innocent. "Yes?"

Severus didn't quite know how to ask her what she wanted. His usual approach with people was to be blunt, rude if necessary. But he wanted to be nice to her. And he didn't really know how to be nice. "Are you all right?"

"It'll be Christmas break in two weeks," she said.

"And you have to go home?"

She nodded grimly.

A new sensation crept into his stomach. He did not recognize it at first. It was not terribly heavy and it didn't cause him any discomfort. He pondered it, curious, a bit uneasy. He felt like a child inspecting a new toy. Not that he'd ever been given new toys as a child. Or any toys at all.

_Protective. _

That was it. Funny, he'd given his life over to protecting someone and yet he hardly recognized the feeling of wanting to do so. But that was different. Protecting Harry Potter was an obligation he despised. This was new. He didn't dislike it. Not at all. It was not heavy and overwhelming, yet it filled him up. He didn't know what to do with it.

"Is something wrong, Professor?"

Severus looked up at his student. But he was too involved now to have her fit into that nice little file labelled _student_. Being involved meant being invested. Which could mean failing. Or actually being useful. Not that he considered his current role useless- far from it. Only it was devoid of any meaning. It used to be about Lily. It still was, but so much time had passed and he'd been so resigned to just see it through, that the promise to protect her son had become a fact and not a feeling.

If that made any sense.

_I am in trouble_

"No," he said, hardly recognizing his own voice. He cleared his throat abruptly. "Not at all, Miss Granger. I'm only concerned. You clearly don't want to visit your parents, and it worries me that you are being forced to."

"Oh," she said. "I'll be okay, Professor. Thank you, though. I appreciate your concern." She gave him a smile that had suddenly become wonderful to him.

_Yes, you will be okay. I will make sure of it_

"Did you ever try, Professor?"

Distracted by his feelings (how strange!), he looked up at her. "Try, Miss Granger?"

She swallowed, a nervous reaction. "To kill yourself?"

"Twice," he said, pouring more water into his cup and adding a lemon slice, mashing it up with his spoon.

"May I ask how?"

Such an innocent question. He wondered if maybe she was looking for ideas. But no. You didn't need to ask how to slice open arteries. They were the plump, juicy ones, softly blue under your skin, not very far from the surface. You followed them down, from the wrist to the elbow. People failed because they stopped. Because there was so much blood, you thought there was no chance you would survive.

"Only once by cutting my arms open," he said dryly. "It didn't take, obviously. Once with intentional overdose. I was more resilient when I was a teenager."

"Overdose with what? Valium?"

He shook his head. Had the thought ever occurred to him? Well, yes. But always he would take two, have some wine, take another two, and wake up in the morning. Apparently that was how you were supposed to do it. Slowly, to avoid vomiting. "No. Heroin. I woke up in the hospital. After that, I thought I ought to call it a day."

She smiled thinly, though her eyes were quite shocked. "The urge never struck you again?"

"I suppose it did, but I was rather too busy with life." He smiled back at her humorlessly.

She shook her head, still smiling, then yawned, baring her teeth for a moment. They were very white and quite straight. He didn't remember her having such nice teeth. Had she gotten them fixed? Perhaps after he'd made such a cruel joke about them?

"Are you tired, Miss Granger?"

She nodded, rubbing at her eyes for a moment. "Yes, but I… don't want to leave."

He picked up his magazine. "I think you will like this article. It is quite interesting." He offered it to her, and she took it, rubbing her thumbs along the glossy pages.

"_Thermodynamic Hot Zones_ by Horace Slughorn. Who is that?"

"My own Potions teacher and head of house. He's quite retired now but still puts out the occasional piece of research."

"What is a hot zone?"

"A length of time during a potion's brewing when it is particularly vulnerable to change. In this case, heat and energy."

"This appears to be an article about stirring," she added.

"That it is."

She glanced up at him, as though waiting for the punchline in a joke. He gave her his best gravely serious expression. She bit her lower lip to stop herself grinning, then perused the article.

She was asleep in two minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter #5**

* * *

The days bled into one another. And the nights, more often than not, were what she looked forward to. She always waited until well past midnight before venturing down into the dungeons. She no longer even knocked on his office door, instead knocking on the door to his living quarters. Sometimes he was still in his office, but usually only on Friday nights when he was finishing up the week's grading.

She liked the night because of the effect it had on Professor Snape. It turned him mellow, made him talkative, languid, and calm. He would throw his long legs over the edge of his sofa and look up at his stone ceiling, and talk about potions. Or defensive magic.

He would balance his cup of tea on his knee and lean back, almost smiling, clearly content. Sometimes she sat beside him on the sofa and talked mindlessly about her life. Not much about her childhood. More about being a witch, what it meant to be friends with Harry Potter, how frustrating it could be to be the only voice of reason in a chorus of Gryffindor bravery.

And he would listen and ask the right questions. And she could talk for hours like that, until sleep finally took her. Saturday and Sunday mornings she woke up in Professor Snape's living room, well-rested for the week. She knew it was not proper. And she knew that he knew as well. That it was not normal to be so close to your teacher.

And he wasn't even her head of house.

But she trusted him, and she could talk to him. She didn't feel like flinching when he sat next to her. Her skin didn't crawl when he got so close she could smell him. She'd never had that with a man. It was a bit of a revelation for her, that she didn't have to feel disgusted by him being male. She liked that. Even with her friends, sometimes, when they got too close or touched her. She knew it was innocent, that they were her friends, but she couldn't help herself. It was instinct now to be repulsed.

Yes, nighttime was wonderful.

She took her defense lessons back to Harry and Dumbledore's Army, helping them with proper form and wand movement. Her lessons with Professor Snape were rigorous, exhausting, and wonderful. She liked to feel drained three nights a week. It helped her forget that there were only a few short days before Christmas. And when finally it was time to leave Hogwarts, she explained to her friends patiently that her Grandmother was ill and she had to go home.

They expressed their sympathies. And before she got on the train she found herself pulled aside by Professor Snape.

"Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, I'm all right."

"I am sorry, Miss Granger. Are you quite sure you don't want to ask the Headmaster if he could make other arrangements?"

She nodded fervently. Positive. It was only two weeks. She'd lived through summer breaks and Christmas holidays and the first eleven years of her life. She could make it through this. "Thank you, sir. I'll be fine."

He nodded grimly. One would think she was going off to the gallows, by the look on his face. She smiled at him shyly and he allowed a barely perceptible smile back, then patted her shoulder rather awkwardly. "Take care, then." And he turned and left.

The ride back to London was miserably quiet without her friends, and when she re-entered muggle London the city seemed grey and dull. A light drizzle had started up. She found her parents easily enough. Her mother was a quivering mess of emotions.

"Gran hasn't much time left," she said.

Her father gave her a stiff one-armed hug. She tried not to shiver. "Horrible weather," he said lightly. "We'd better hurry home."

She nodded and got in the backseat, mentally preparing herself for when they were in the solitude of their home. She was quite used to her father, yet he always managed to shock her. Every time. It never got easier to accept, and it never hurt any less.

When they pulled up to the modest little house her mother hurried into the kitchen to make dinner. Hermione sat on the couch and stared at the fake flowers. Her father sat beside her, put his arm around her, and rested his hand on her thigh. She shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm glad you came home," he said.

_Did I have a choice?_ "I'm worried about Gran," she said.

"We all are." His hand slid up. She squirmed away from him. He smiled. "We missed you, sweetheart."

The clatter of a dropped pan echoed from the kitchen.

"Especially me," he murmured, his mouth inches from her cheek, his breath hot and unpleasant on her skin. His hand slid from her shoulders to her waist and he pulled her against him. And she felt herself go limp like a rag doll, submissive, her eyes closing as his mouth fell on her neck and he murmured horrid things into her skin.

* * *

"Where are they?" His hand connected with her cheek. She tried her best not to cry out. "Did you take them?" He slapped her again, then grabbed her wrists, his fingernails digging into her skin.

She whimpered. "I don't know… I don't know what you're talking about."

"The tapes, Hermione." He took one hand off of her wrist and squeezed her breast, his fingers twisting until she did cry out. He slapped her again and she tasted blood.

"I don't…. I don't know!"

He unzipped his trousers and yanked at her underwear impatiently. She cried out again, though she knew it never helped. It only ever seemed to egg him on. "Did you run crying to someone? Tell them your Daddy did terrible things to you?" he snarled, yanking a fistful of her hair to bring her face in line with his. "You think that was abuse? I'll show you abuse, Hermione." He ripped her underwear off and she felt him hot and angry between her legs.

"I didn't take them! I didn't tell!" she sobbed, pushing at him desperately.

_ Get off, get off… please… _

"I'll fuck you until you show me a little respect, damn you! Filthy fucking whore. Like your mother!" He was screaming now. He rarely ever actually screamed. It terrified her. His mouth fell on her breast and he sucked on her nipple until she was sure he would rip it clean off. She began to cry. He laughed and put both hands on her thighs, forcing her legs apart.

_Should I fight him?_

It always occurred to her, that thought. But she'd been resistant before- she knew what would happen. He would beat her until she thought she would pass out, and then he would carry on. He always fucked her in the end. It hardly mattered what she did.

She fell back on her bed, defeated.

He grabbed her ankles and pulled her legs over his shoulders. "What's wrong, baby? Are you tired?"

She felt the tip of him brushing against her. Revulsion crashed around in her head, with no way to get out, no way to be relieved. He forced his way into her with a grunt. She clawed at her sheets and clamped down on her tongue to stop the noise coming out of her mouth.

_Just be over soon. _

"Poor baby," he whispered in her ear, sliding in and out of her with no regard to the fact that she felt as though she would be ripped in two. "Poor, tired baby." He slapped her again, just for fun, and forced his mouth against hers. She gagged when he shoved his tongue into her mouth. He pulled away laughing.

She knew this would not be a short incident. He was going to draw it out.

There was a sudden bang, like a gunshot. She screamed in response and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Levicorpus!"

The hot, sweaty body that had been rutting on top of her suddenly was lifted into the air.

"Agghhh!"

"Crucio!"

A sudden shot of adrenaline was released into her bloodstream. Her wand… where was her wand? Downstairs with her backpack. She screamed, though her father's wailing rose far above her own voice, and buried her head under her pillow. What else could she do?

She was going to die.

Her father stopped screaming and she heard him panting, trying to catch his breath.

"How does it feel, Mr. Granger? Crucio!"

More screaming.

_Death Eater_, she thought wildly. _I'm being attacked by Death Eaters._

"John! JOHN!" Her mother.

"Ah, Mrs. Granger. How kind of you to join us. Levicorpus! Stay there now, Mrs. Granger. Take a good look at your daughter."

A flicker of recognition went off in her brain. That voice. Soft, dangerous, almost eloquent. She knew that voice. Maybe. Her mind could be playing tricks on her.

"What… what do you want?" her mother sobbed. "Please! Take whatever you want!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Granger. I think I'll do just that. Sectumsempra!"

Finally her body kicked into gear, and Hermione rolled off of her bed, scrambling across the floor. Her elbow slipped in a pool of hot red blood and she collapsed on her side, her shoulder popping painfully, dislocating.

_Going to die… you're going to die…_

Suddenly she was not naked. Her attacker had draped a thick wool cloak over her. He clasped it around her throat and his fingers touched her hair. "Go," he said.

She looked up at the masked, hooded face. Couldn't see who it was. She shivered. "Just kill me. I don't care." The dead quality of her voice almost frightened her. Giving up so easily. She was finished with it all. Didn't matter. She wanted to sleep. There was a dull, throbbing pain in her lower belly.

"You must go." That voice. Almost urgent, almost pleading. "Go on. Please." She trembled when his hand went to her chin and tilted her head up. "Please, Miss Granger."

Her head felt as though in a vice grip. Yes, without a doubt. She knew that voice. Knew those hands, from watching them brew potions for five years. She knew. And yet her brain would not admit it. It couldn't be. "Sir," she said. Her mother's almost gentle sobs cut through the air sharply. Her father still had not caught his breath.

"The Leaky Cauldron," he said. "Please, Miss Granger. You have to leave."

She knew why he wanted her to go. Oh yes, she knew. He would kill them. There was no doubt in her mind he was going to kill her parents. And a part of her wanted to see it. She was fascinated. She wanted to see him as a death eater, torturing and murdering. If he needed a reason as good as the one she had to offer, then who was she to object?

"I want to stay," she said.

He removed the mask from his face, pushing it back. "Look at me," he said harshly. She couldn't look away. "Do you want to see this, Miss Granger? Do you want to see me like this?"

He looked very much the terrifying dark wizard, his black hair wild, a glint of sweat on his forehead, his cheeks actually flushed pink. There was a mad gleam in his eyes. She shuddered under his stare and looked down at the floor. Turned on her heel and fled out of the room, making sure to grab her wand on her way out of her house. From the driveway she could not hear a sound. The cold air brushed against her bare ankles as she stumbled down the street in a daze, her hair blowing in her face.

She found the bus stop that would take her to the nearest tube station, and collapsed on the cold metal seat, wand clutched in her hand tightly.

_ What was that?_

She checked the schedule taped to the inside of the bus shelter. Another bus would be here in three minutes. What luck. She laughed, and it came out horribly dry and high-pitched, hysterical.

Her lip was bleeding and she became aware that her shoulder hurt. When the bus came she had no money to give the driver, but he took one look at her and nodded silently, averting his eyes as she made her way to the very back of the bus.

Professor Snape. How did he know where she lived? Why did he come into her house and attack her parents? He seemed to have known exactly what he was doing.

_Take a good look at your daughter_, he'd said.

A little whine escaped from her lips.

He'd known all along, then. Suddenly everything clicked into place in her mind. She tried to breathe but couldn't, and felt a panic attack building up inside her chest. He knew. He'd always known. How, though? And why? And he hadn't told anyone. It made no sense to her.

She began to feel a bit betrayed.

She went on autopilot, getting on the train and getting off again at Paddington, making her way through the noisy London night, sidestepping groups of drunken young adults and avoiding the alleyways where the darkness seemed to bleed out into the well-lit main streets. She'd tucked her wand into an inner pocket of her cloak. She felt naked and exposed though it hit just below her knees and buttoned right up to her neck.

The Leaky Cauldron was dead quiet and nearly empty, save for a few lonely-looking people scattered about. She stumbled in and went straight to the bathroom to clean herself up.

In the privacy of a bathroom stall, she leaned over the toilet and threw up. It made her feel a little bit better. She splashed cold water on her face and tried to look at herself in the dusty old mirror. Her face was very pale except for her cheeks, which were flushed with color from the cold. There was a bit of dried blood on the corner of her lip. She balled up a piece of toilet tissue, wetted it under the running faucet, and wiped her mouth. Her left shoulder throbbed painfully. She held her arm close to her chest, coddling it as she went back out into the pub.

She sat down at the bar and avoided making eye contact with Tom.

"Good evening, Miss Granger."

Hermione looked up, expecting her Potions teacher. It was not. She shivered and looked away, her frayed nerves sending her heart pounding anxiously. "Mr. Malfoy." Was it sheer irony that he would stroll in five minutes after her? Professor Snape had asked her to come here… had she walked into a trap of sorts?

No. He wouldn't do that to her. She had to believe that he wouldn't put her in harm's way.

Tom had caught sight of her. "Are you of age, young lady?"

She didn't know what to say. Would he kick her out? Call the authorities? It was very late- well past midnight.

"She is with me, Tom," said Lucius Malfoy, and to her horror he pulled up a chair next to her and sat down. "I will take a firewhisky, no ice." He looked down at her. "For you?"

"I'm not thirsty," she muttered, looking away, wincing as she tried to slide away from him and bumped her shoulder against the bar.

"I understand you like a good cup of tea," he said.

She wanted to get up and run out of the pub. But she had nowhere to go… except to Grimmauld Place. Suddenly that seemed to be the obvious solution, the smart choice to make. She would be safe there. Harry and Ron were there. She could forget about her father pinning her down, his hands on her ankles, on her thighs. She could push Professor Snape out of her mind, forget the way he looked at her with his fingers on her chin. Sad, angry, concerned.

"He won't be long, Miss Granger. Do relax."

Hermione looked up at him slowly. He looked very much like Draco, except for a few subtle differences in facial structure. But his eyes were much colder and his expression more haughty than any teenage boy could manage. She did not trust him. Harry said he'd been there when the Dark Lord returned. She knew he was a death eater- but then, was that a good marker for judging a person? She knew of at least one death eater who she trusted with her life.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Having a drink," he said.

"At this hour?"

He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. It was as though he'd seen someone else make the same expression, and had mastered how to duplicate it, but there was no feeling behind the thin lips curling upward. "You are perceptive, I will give you that much. I am only here as a favor, to ensure you are not bothered by any unwanted attention."

She didn't believe him.

"There you are." A hand fell on her shoulder, startling her so badly she jostled her arm again and actually cried out from the pain that shot up to her shoulder. "You're hurt." Professor Snape studied her for a moment, his expression quite unreadable. Then he noticed her split lip, and his dark eyes blazed. She wanted to back away from him, but he was towering above her and she really had no place to go.

"Settle down, Severus. I think she will survive." Mr. Malfoy got off of his stool and strolled out of the pub as casually as he'd come in.

"Miss Granger…. "

Hermione had never seen him speechless before. It was unsettling. He trailed off, his eyes flickering away from her face, looking down at his shoes. She wanted to slap him. It was an irrational desire, but she was so angry and lost, and her shoulder would not stop hurting, and she wanted to ask him if he'd killed her parents, and why had he sent Lucius Malfoy to meet her at the Leaky Cauldron? And where was she supposed to go now?

She opened her mouth to ask questions. "You knew."

"Your arm," he said, brushing her elbow lightly, taking her wrist and pulling her arm away from her body. "Does it hurt?"

"It's dislocated," she said.

"I should have told the Headmaster." He said it more to himself than to her.

"No…" She felt sick, and had to hold her hand over her mouth.

"Will you come with me, Miss Granger? I promise you I only want to help."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He placed his hand between her shoulders and they left the Leaky Cauldron together. It rather hurt to walk, and she realized her father had left her quite sore, but even the thought of saying something about that to her teacher was unbearable.

It was raining again, a cold drizzle that soaked through her cloak. She shivered, and Professor Snape muttered something under his breath, his hand pressing more firmly against her back. A wave of heat spread from his hand all through her body, warming her up and easing the ache in her shoulder.

Lucius Malfoy stood casually on the sidewalk, his eyes on some distant point across the street. But when he spoke he sounded rather amused. "You could have taken muggle transportation, Severus."

Professor Snape gave him a look Hermione was very familiar with. "You know our destination?"

"Yes, of course. Miss Granger, give me your hand."

Hermione stared at the man stupidly. He stretched his long, spidery fingers out. She shook her head and grabbed Professor Snape's arm fearfully. No, she was not going anywhere with Lucius Malfoy. She didn't care if her teacher trusted him, didn't care if there was a good reason-

"It's all right," Professor Snape said, his voice almost gentle but not quite. "I cannot apparate with you, Miss Granger. At worst, we might be followed."

She didn't quite know how that was possible, but didn't even bother to ask. She was suddenly very tired, and his hand on her back was warm and quite reassuring. She took Mr. Malfoy's hand, hating the sensation of somebody else's skin touching hers'. She'd never apparated before, but he didn't even give her time to consider what it would feel like- suddenly they were not standing outside the Leaky Cauldron. They were in front of a rather sad-looking house, and there was snow on the ground and the air was much colder here than in London. Her vision blurred, she leaned over and vomited, almost getting some on Malfoy Senior's expensive-looking cloak. He stepped away from her, visibly irritated.

Professor Snape was not a second behind them. He appeared with a loud pop, gave her one look and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to her. She took it and held it to her mouth, trying to regain her sense of balance.

He muttered something to Malfoy, who shrugged and gave him a rather haughty smile and muttered something back. She heard something about 'filthy muggles' before Malfoy disappeared. She looked up at her teacher and couldn't help asking him, her voice betraying her though she tried not to sound angry, "Why did you have to send Lucius Malfoy to help me?"

He actually looked a bit guilty, which was a very strange thing to see. "Because Mr. Malfoy is rather unscrupulous, Miss Granger, and very capable of minding his own business."

"You trust him?"

"Occasionally."

"He's a Death Eater."

"Come inside, please." He opened the door and held it for her. She realized that maybe calling someone a Death Eater and implying that they couldn't be trusted because of that probably wasn't the best thing to say to Severus Snape.

She really wasn't thinking straight.

"Perhaps you're in shock." Professor Snape pulled out his wand and tapped her shoulder gently. It snapped back into place and she whimpered. He looked away. She thought he might be a bit shaken by everything. Maybe he hadn't known about her father.

She sat down on an ancient-looking sofa and looked up at him, trying to wrap her head around everything that had happened in the past two hours. "Professor?"

He sat beside her and buried his head in his hands, his hair like a curtain hiding his face. She had never seen him like this. It almost frightened her.

"Professor Snape?" She scooted closer to him uncertainly, and reached out to touch his shoulder. Her fingers hesitated, hovering an inch above his cloak, before she rested her palm on his upper arm.

Maybe _he_ was in shock.

He dropped his hands into his lap and looked down at her, seeming to recover in mere seconds. "I'll find you some clean clothes. Would you like to… to clean yourself up?" He stumbled over his words a bit. She wouldn't have thought that possible.

"I'd like that," she said, her hand still on his arm. He looked down at it, almost curious, as though nobody had ever touched him before. "My parents…" She didn't ask, but the question hung in the air between them, heavy and uncomfortable.

"Miss Granger…" He paused, still staring at her hand. "I didn't. Much as I wanted to."

"Oh," she said.

He looked up at her. "Clothes," he said, then stood and disappeared through a door she hadn't even noticed.

This must be his home. Everything looked very old and ill-used. There was an ancient television set in the middle of the floor, and a dented old VCR player lying on its back in the corner of the room. She stood up shakily and went into the kitchen. There was an ancient wooden table and one very uncomfortable-looking chair. All of the appliances looked as though they might have been brand new in the sixties'.

At least it seemed to be a fairly _clean_ house.

How did he come into possession of this place? Surely he wouldn't have bought it- it was very cramped and small. And he was at Hogwarts ten months out of the year. Had he grown up here? She couldn't imagine a family crammed into this tiny house.

She went back into the main room and found the bathroom. There was no shower, only a very old claw-footed bathtub. Despite the neglected air around her, it too was clean. So he took some care of his home. But not much.

_Who is this person?_

"Miss Granger?"

"In here, sir."

He had clean towels and clothes bundled up in his arms. "Here you are," he said.

"Thank you."

He nodded and left her alone, closing the door behind him. She gave the bathtub several minutes to fill up with hot water, and considered her reflection in the cracked mirror. Still very pale. She looked unwell, but her eyes were quite bright. Her hair was a disaster, tangled and frizzy. She took off the cloak and stepped into the bath, wincing slightly as the hot water lapped at her knees. She sank down into the tub and let out a long, slow breath that she felt she'd been holding in since she'd gotten off the train in London yesterday.

She was away from her father. Maybe would never see him again. Did Professor Snape plan this? Or had it been a spur-of-the-moment decision? Not long ago she would have thought it must have been somebody else's idea, because he was such a rational person who didn't indulge in snap decisions made under emotional stress. But the idea of anyone asking Professor Snape to rescue her was laughable. Because nobody else knew she needed rescuing.

But he knew.

She let out a very quiet but earnest laugh that quickly turned loud and hysterical. In seconds she was no longer laughing, but crying instead. She curled up her legs and pressed her forehead against her knees and sobbed unselfconsciously. Her ragged voice bounced off the bathroom walls and echoed around her tauntingly. She cried for what felt like hours. By the time she'd cleaned herself up and washed her hair (just with water, as there didn't appear to be any hygiene products around) the bathwater was lukewarm and no longer pleasant to be sitting in. But she felt much better after just letting herself cry.

She towelled off and picked up the t-shirt he'd given her. It was a plain grey cotton shirt, soft and clean. And there was a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms that felt nice and cozy when she slid into them. When she went out into the living room Professor Snape looked at her arms before meeting her eyes. He'd made some tea.

She sat down beside him and fixed herself a cup. "You knew."

"I suspected."

"That's why you've been so nice to me."

"No."

She looked up at him. He was frowning, his eyes unfocused and set on the far end of the room. Lost in thought. But she needed an explanation. She needed to know why he hadn't given the problem to someone else. Why did he decide to shoulder the whole thing by himself? Was he just that stubborn? Or did he care so much that he couldn't bring himself to make her personal problems public knowledge?

"I always cared, Miss Granger." His eyes met hers' and she felt as though he could see right through her, as though he was examining her thoughts one by one, like shuffling a deck of cards. "I care about my students. Most of them never give me cause to be concerned." He looked away again, visibly uncomfortable with direct eye contact. "I thought you were…"

_Thought what? Thought I was normal?_

"I thought you were healthy."

"I am healthy," she said.

"No." He looked at her with a sad little smile. "No, you're not. But that's all right, Miss Granger. I only thought… I didn't have to worry about you."

"You _don't_ have to."

Professor Snape gave her a serious look. "I know."

"How did you find out?" she whispered, looking down at her lap, her mind whirling with questions she didn't have the guts to ask him.

His hand on her shoulder made her jump slightly, but she found she didn't mind him touching her. It was actually reassuring, coming from Professor Snape, who seemed so distant and solitary all of the time. "It doesn't matter, Miss Granger. I know your father hurt you. I understand how it feels to not have a safe place, to get away from the world. Look at me," he said gently, and she looked up at him. He took her other shoulder as well and held her several inches away from himself. "You're safe now. I promise you nobody will hurt you again. I won't allow it."

Before she could stop herself she collapsed against him, her arms going around his middle. She thought she'd been in control of herself, but apparently not. She slipped a little further, starting to cry, her face buried in his robes. He seemed to freeze for a moment, his breath hitching in his throat, before resting his arms around her, leaning back into the couch and letting her curl up against him.

She cried into his chest for what felt like hours, until the sobbing became gentle snoring and she fell asleep.


End file.
